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THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


WITH   A   MEMOIR 


BY  SIR  HARRIS  NICOLAS. 


BOSTON: 
LITTLE,   BROWN  AND   COMPANY. 

MDCCCLXIV. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 
FEINTED  BY  H.  0.  HOUGHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

THESE  Poems  have  been  carefully  corrected, 
and  the  text  has  been  compared  with  that  of  the 
new  Aldine  edition,  from  which  also  the  Notes 
added  at  the  end  of  the  volume  have  been  de- 
rived. 

April,  1864. 


CONTENTS. 


ME>K>IK  OF  HENBY  KIEKK  WHITE         .       .        .       .        xi 

Preface         .         .  .         .  .  Ixi 

MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Clifton  Grove 

Time  

Childhood;  Parti 

PartH 

The  Christiad 

Lines  written  on  a  Survey  of  the  Heavens 

Lines  supposed  to  be  spoken  by  a  Lover  at  the  Grave  of 

his  Mistress 73 

My  Study  75 

Description  of  a  Summer's  Eve 79 

Lines  —  "  Go  to  the  raging  sea,  and  say, '  Be  still ! ' "  .  81 
Written  in  the  Prospect  of  Death  .....  83 
Verses  —  "  When  pride  and  envy,  and  the  scorn  "  .  85 

Fragment— "  Oh !  thou  most  fatal  of  Pandora's  train  "     .        86 
"  Loud  rage  the  winds  without.  —  The  wintry 

cloud" 87 

To  a  Friend  in  Distress 88 

Christmas  Day 90 

Nelsoni  Mors .92 

Epigram  on  Robert  Bloomfield 94 

Elegy  occasioned  by  the  Death  of  Mr.   Gill,  who  was 

drowned  in  the  River  Trent,  while  bathing  .  .  94 
Inscription  for  a  Monument  to  the  Memory  of  Cowper  .  96 
"  I  'm  pleased,  and  yet  I  'm  sad  " 96 


VI  CONTENTS. 

Page 

Solitude 98 

"If  far  from  me  the  Fates  remove" 99 

"Fanny!  upon  thy  breast  I  may  not  lie !"        ...  99 
Fragments  —  "Saw'st    thou   that  light?  exclaimed  the 

youth,  and  paused:" 100 

"  The  pious  man " 101 

"  Lo !  on  the  eastern  summit,  clad  in  gray  "     .        .  101 

"  There  was  a  little  bird  upon  that  pile ;"       .        .  101 

"  0  pale  art  thou,  my  lamp,  and  faint "           .        .  102 

"  0  give  me  music  —  for  my  soul  doth  faint ; "        .  103 

"  And  must  thou  go,  and  must  we  part?  "       .        .  103 

"  Ah !  who  can  say,  however  fair  his  view,"   .        .  104 

"  Hush'd  is  the  lyre — the  hand  that  swept"   .        .  104 

"  When  high  romance  o'er  every  wood  and  stream  "  105 

"  Once  more,  and  yet  once  more,"   ....  105 

Fragment  of  an  Eccentric  Drama       .....  106 

To  a  Friend 112 

Lines  on  reading  the  Poems  of  Warton      ....  114 

Fragment — "  The  western  gale," 115 

Commencement  of  a  Poem  on  Despair      ....  118 

The  Eve  of  Death        .........  120 

Thanatos 121 

Athanatos 123 

Music 124 

On  being  confined  to  School  one  pleasant  Morning  in 

Spring 126 

To  Contemplation 127 

My  own  Character 130 

Lines  written  in  Wilford  Churchyard         .        .        .        .132 

Verses  —  "  Thou  base  repiner  at  another's  joy,"        .        .  135 

Lines  —  "  Yet,  ah !  thy  arrows  are  too  keen,  too  sure : "     .  138 
Lines  —  "  Yes,  my  stray  steps  have  wander' d,  wander'd 

far" 136 

The  Prostitute 139 

ODES. 

To  my  Lyre 141 

To  an  early  Primrose 143 


CONTENTS.  Vii 

Page 
Ode  addressed  to  H.  Fuseli,  Esq.  B.  A.  .        .        .144 

To  the  Earl  of  Carlisle,  K.  G 147 

To  Contemplation       .        . 150 

To  the  Genius  of  Romance 166^ 

To  Midnight 157 

To  Thought 158 

Genius 160 

Fragment  of  an  Ode  to  the  Moon 163 

To  the  Muse 165 

To  Love 166 

On  Whit-Monday 167 

To  the  Wind,  at  Midnight 169 

To  the  Harvest  Moon 169 

To  the  Herb  Rosemary 172 

To  the  Morning 173 

On  Disappointment     .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  176 

On  the  Death  of  Dermody,  the  Poet 179 

SONNETS. 

To  the  River  Trent 181 

Sonnet — "  Give  me  a  cottage  on  some  Cambrian  wild,"  181 
Sonnet  supposed  to  have  been  addressed  by  a  Female 

Lunatic  to  a  Lady 182 

Sonnet  supposed  to  be  written  by  the  unhappy  Poet  Der- 
mody in  a  Storm .  183 

The  Winter  Traveller .183 

Sonnet  —  "  Yo  whose  aspirings  court  the  muse  of  lays,"  184 

Recantatory,  in  Reply  to  the  foregoing  elegant  Admonition  185 

On  hearing  the  Sounds  of  an  JSolian  Harp         .        .        .  186 
Sonnet  — "  What  art  thou,  Mighty  One !  and  where  thy 

seat?" 186 

To  Capel  Lofft,  Esq .        .        .187 

To  the  Moon 188 

Written  at  the  Grave  of  a  Friend 188 

To  Misfortune 189 

Sonnet — "As  thus  oppressed  with  many  a  heavy  care,"  190 

To  April 190 


VUl  CONTENTS. 

Page 

Sonnet  —  "  Ye  unseen  spirits,  whose  wild  melodies,"         .  191 

To  a  Taper 192 

To  ray  Mother 192 

Sonnet —  "  Yes,  't  will  be  over  soon.    This  sickly  dream  "  193 

To  Consumption 193 

Sonnet — "Thy  judgments,  Lord,  are  just;"     .        .        .  194 

Sonnet  —  "  When  I  sit  musing  on  the  chequered  past"      .  195 

Sonnet  —  "  Sweet  to  the  gay  of  heart  is  Summer's  smile"  195 

Sonnet — "  Quick  o'er  the  wintry  waste  dart  fiery  shafts  "  196 


BALLADS,   SONGS,  AND   HYMNS. 

Gondoline 197 

A  Ballad  —  "  Be  hushed,  be  hushed,  ye  bitter  winds,"        .  209 
The  Lullaby  of  a  Female  Convict  to  her  Child,  the  Night 

previous  to  Execution 210 

The  Savoyard's  Return 211 

A  Pastoral  Song 212 

Melody  — "  Yes,  once  more  that  dying  strain "          .        .  213 

Additional  Stanza  to  a  Song  by  Waller      ....  214 

The  Wandering  Boy 215 

Canzonet  —  "Maiden!  wrap  thy  mantle  round  thee "       .  216 

Song  — "  Softly,  softly  blow,  ye  breezes,"          .        .        .  217 

The  Shipwrecked  Solitary's  Song  to  the  Night          .        .  219 

The  Wonderful  Juggler 221 

Hymn  —  "  Awake,  sweet  harp  of  Judah,  wake  "        .        .  224 

A  Hymn  for  Family  Worship 225 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem 226 

Hymn  —  "  0  Lord,  my  God,  in  mercy  turn  "     .        .        .  227 

TRIBUTARY   VERSES. 

Eulogy  on  Henry  Kirke  White,  by  Lord  Byron          .        .  229 

Sonnet  on  Henry  Kirke  White,  by  Capel  Lofft           .        .  230 
Sonnet  occasioned  by  the  Second  of  H.  K.  White,  by  the 

same 231 

Written  in  the  Homer  of  Mr.  H.  K.  White,  by  the  same    .  232 


CONTENTS.  ix 

Page 
To  the  Memory  of  H.  K.  White,  by  the   Rev.  W.  B. 

Collyer,  A.M 233 

Sonnet  to  H.  K.  White,  on  his  Poems,  by  Arthur  Owen, 

Esq 235 

Sonnet,  on  seeing  another  written  to  H.  K.  White,  by  the 

same 236 

Reflections  on  Reading  the  Life  of  the  late  H.  K.  White, 

by  William  Holloway 237 

On  the  Death  of  Henry  Kirke  White,  by  T.  Park  .  .  239 
Lines  on  the  Death  of  Henry  Kirke  White,  by  the  Rev.  J. 

Plumptre 239 

To  Henry  Kirke  White,  by  H.  Welker  ....  240 
Verses  occasioned  by  the  Death  of  H.  K.  White,  by  Josiah 

Conder 241 

On  Reading  H.  K.  White's  Poem  on  Solitude,  by  the  same  243 

Ode  on  the  late  Henry  Kirke  White,  by  Juvenis  .  .  244 

Sonnet  in  Memory  of  Henry  Kirke  White,  by  J.  G.  .  245 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  Henry  Kirke  White  .  .  .  246 

Sonnet  to  H.  K.  White,  on  his  Poems,  by  G.  L.  C.  .  .  247 

To  the  Memory  of  Henry  Kirke  White,  by  a  Lady  .  .  248 
Stanzas  supposed  to  have  been  written  at  the  Grave  of 

Henry  Kirke  White,  by  a  Lady 251 


MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 

BY  SIR  HARRIS  NICOLAS. 

Thine,  HENRY,  is  a  deathless  name  on  earth, 

Thine  amaranthine  wreaths,  new  pluck'd  in  Heaven  ! 

By  what  aspiring  child  of  mortal  birth 

Could  more  be  ask'd,  to  whom  might  more  be  given  ? 

TOWNSEND. 

IT  has  been  said  that  the  contrasts  of  light  and 
shade  are  as  necessary  to  biography  as  to  painting, 
and  that  the  character  which  is  radiant  with  genius 
and  virtue  requires  to  be  relieved  by  more  common 
and  opposite  qualities.  Though  this  may  be  true  as 
a  principle,  there  are  many  exceptions ;  and  the 
life  of  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE,  whose  merits  were 
unalloyed  by  a  single  vice,  is  one  of  the  most 
memorable.  The  history  of  his  short  and  melan- 
choly career,  by  Mr.  Southey,  is  extremely  popular; 
and  when  it  is  remembered  that  its  author  is  one  of 
the  most  distinguished  of  living  writers,  that  as  a 
biographer  he  is  unrivalled,  and  that  he  had  access 
to  all  the  materials  which  exist,  it  would  be  as  vain 
to  expect  from  the  present  Memoir  any  new  facts, 
as  it  would  be  absurd  to  hope  that  it  will  be  more 


Xll  MEMOIR    OF    KIRKE    WHITE. 

worthy  of  attention  than  the  imperishable  monu- 
ment which  his  generous  friend  has  erected  to  his 
memory. 

There  is,  however,  nothing  inconsistent  with  this 
admission,  in  presuming  that  a  Life  of  the  Poet 
might  be  written  almost  as  interesting  as  the  one 
alluded  to,  and  without  the  writer  assuming  to  him- 
self any  unusual  sagacity.  As  Mr.  Southey's  nar- 
rative is  prefixed  to  a  collection  of  all  Kirke  White's 
remains,  in  prose  as  well  as  in  verse,  his  letters  are 
inserted  as  part  of  his  works,  instead  of  extracts 
from  them  being  introduced  into  the  Memoir.  This 
volume  will,  on  the  contrary,  be  confined  to  his 
Poems ;  and  such  parts  of  his  letters  as  describe 
his  situation  and  feelings  at  particular  periods  will 
be  introduced  into  the  account  of  his  life.  Indeed, 
so  frequent  are  the  allusions  to  himself  in  those 
letters  as  well  as  in  his  poems,  that  he  may  be  al- 
most considered  an  autobiographer ;  and  the  writer 
who  substitutes  his  own  cold  and  lifeless  sketch  for 
the  glowing  and  animated  portrait  which  these 
memorials  of  genius  afford,  must  either  be  deficient 
in  skill,  or  be  under  the  dominion  of  overweening 
vanity. 

Few  who  have  risen  to  eminence  were,  on  the 
paternal  side  at  least,  of  humbler  origin  than 
HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE.  His  father,  John  White, 
was  a  butcher  at  Nottingham  ;  but  his  mother,  who 
bore  the  illustrious  name  of  Neville,  is  said  to  have 
belonged  to  a  respectable  family  in  Staffordshire. 


MEMOIR    OF   KIBKE    WHITE.  XIU 

He  was  born  at  Nottingham  on  the  21st  of  March, 
1785 ;  and  in  his  earliest  years  indications  were 
observed  of  the  genius  for  which  he  was  afterwards 
distinguished.  In  his  poem  "  Childhood,"  he  has 
graphically  described  the  little  school  where,  between 
the  age  of  three  and  five,  he 

"  enter' d,  though,  with  toil  and  pain, 
The  low  vestibule  of  learning's  fane." 

The  venerable  dame  by  whom  he  was 

"  inured  to  alphabetic  toils," 

and  whose  worth  he  gratefully  commemorates,  had 
the  discernment  to  perceive  her  charge's  talents,  and 
even  foretold  his  future  celebrity : 

"  And,  as  she  gave  my  diligence  its  praise, 
Talk'd  of  the  honour  of  my  future  days." 

If  he  did  not  deceive  himself,  it  was  at  this  period 
that  his  imagination  became  susceptible  of  poetic 
associations.  Speaking  of  the  eagerness  with  which 
he  left  the  usual  sports  of  children  to  listen  to  tales 
of  imaginary  woe,  and  of  the  effect  which  they  pro- 
duced,  he  says, 

"  Beloved  moment !  then  't  was  first  I  caught 
The  first  foundation  of  romantic  thought; 
Then  first  I  shed  bold  Fancy's  thrilling  tear, 
Then  first  that  Poesy  charmed  mine  infant  ear. 
Soon  stored  with  much  of  legendary  lore, 
The  sports  of  childhood  charmed  my  soul  no  more ; 
Far  from  the  scene  of  gaiety  and  noise, 
Far,  far  from  turbulent  and  empty  joys, 


XIV  MEMOIR    OF   KIRKE    WHITE. 

I  hied  me  to  the  thick  o'erarching  shade, 

And  there,  on  mossy  carpet,  listless  laid ; 

While  at  my  feet  the  rippling  runnel  ran, 

The  days  of  wild  romance  antique  I'd  scan ; 

Soar  on  the  wings  of  fancy  through  the  air, 

To  realms  of  light,  and  pierce  the  radiance  there." 

The  peculiar  disposition  of  his  mind,  having  thus 
early  displayed  itself,  every  day  added  to  its  force. 
Study  and  abstraction  were  his  greatest  pleasures, 
and  a  love  of  reading  became  his  predominant  pas- 
sion. "  I  could  fancy,"  said  his  eldest  sister,  "  I  see 
him  in  his  little  chair  with  a  large  book  upon  his 
knee,  and  my  mother  calling,  '-Henry,  my  love, 
come  to  dinner,'  which  was  repeated  so  often  with- 
out being  regarded,  that  she  was  obliged  to  change 
the  tone  of  her  voice  before  she  could  rouse  him." 

At  the  age  of  six  he  was  placed  under  the  care 
of  the  Rev.  John  Blanchard,  who  kept  the  best 
school  in  Nottingham,  where  he  learnt  writing, 
arithmetic,  and  French;  and  he  continued  there 
for  several  years.  During  that  time  two  facts  are 
related  of  him  which  prove  the  precocity  of  his 
talents.  When  about  seven,  he  was  accustomed  to 
go  secretly  into  his  father's  kitchen  and  teach  the 
servant  to  read  and  write ;  and  he  composed  a  tale 
of  a  Swiss  emigrant,  which  he  gave  her,  being  too 
diffident  to  show  it  to  his  mother.  In  his  eleventh 
year  he  wrote  a  separate  theme  for  each  of  the 
twelve  or  fourteen  boys  in  his  class ;  and  the  excel- 
lence of  the  various  pieces  obtained  his  master's 
applause. 


MEMOIB    OF   K1RKE    WHITE,  XV 

Henry  was  destined  for  his  father's  trade,  and 
the  efforts  of  his  mother  to  change  that  intention 
were  for  some  tune  fruitless.  Even  while  he  was 
at  school,  one  day  in  every  week,  and  his  leisure 
hours  on  the  others,  were  employed  in  carrying 
meat  to  his  father's  customers;  but  a  dispute  be- 
tween his  father  and  his  master  having  caused  him 
to  be  removed  from  school,  one  of  the  ushers,  from 
malice  or  ignorance,  told  his  mother  that  it  was 
impossible  to  make  her  son  do  any  tiling.  The  per- 
son who  reported  so  unfavourably  of  his  abilities, 
little  knew  that  he  had  then  given  ample  evidence 
of  his  talents,  in  some  poetical  satires  which  his 
treatment  at  school  had  provoked,  but  which  he 
afterwards  destroyed. 

Soon  after  he  quitted  Mr.  Blanchard's  school  he 
was  intrusted  to  Mr.  Shipley,  who  discovered  his 
pupil's  abilities,  and  relieved  his  friends'  uneasiness 
on  the  subject.  His  earliest  production  that  has 
been  preserved  was  written  in  his  thirteenth  year, 
"  On  being  confined  to  School  one  pleasant  Morn- 
ing in  Spring,"  in  which  a  schoolboy's  love  of 
liberty,  and  his  envy  of  the  freedom  of  a  neighbour- 
ing wren,  are  expressed  with  plaintive  simplicity. 

About  this  time  a  slight  improvement  took  place 
in  his  situation.  His  mother,  to  whom  he  was  in- 
debted for  all  the  happiness  of  his  childhood,  opened 
a  day  school,  and,  as  it  abstracted  her  from  the 
grovelling  cares  of  a  butcher's  shop,  his  home  was 
made  much  more  comfortable  ;  and,  instead  of  being 


XVI  MEMOIR    OF    KIRKE    WHITE. 

confined  to  his  father's  business,  he  was  placed  in 
a  stocking  loom,  with  the  view  of  bringing  him  up 
to  the  trade  of  a  hosier,  the  poverty  of  his  family 
still  precluding  the  hope  of  a  profession. 

It  may  easily  be  believed  that  this  occupation  ill 
agreed  with  the  aspirations  of  his  mind.  From  his 
mother  he  had  few  secrets,  and  in  her  ear  he 
breathed  his  disgust  and  unhappiness.  "  He  could 
not  bear,"  he  said,  "  the  idea  of  spending  some 
years  of  his  life  in  shining  and  folding  up  stock- 
ings ; "  he  wanted  "  something  to  occupy  his  brain, 
and  he  should  be  wretched  if  he  continued  longer 
at  this  trade,  or  indeed  in  any  thing,  except  one  of 
the  learned  professions."  For  a  year  these  remon- 
strances were  ineffectual ;  but  no  persuasions,  even 
when  urged  with  maternal  tenderness,  could  recon- 
cile him  to  his  lot.  He  sought  for  consolation  with 
the  Muses,  and  wrote  an  "  Address  to  Contempla- 
tion," in  which  he  describes  his  feelings  : 

"  Why  along 

The  dusky  track  of  commerce  should  I  toil, 
When,  with  an  easy  competence  content, 
I  can  alone  be  happy ;  where,  with  thee, 
I  may  enjoy  the  loveliness  of  Nature, 
And  loose  the  wings  of  fancy !     Thus  alone 
Can  I  partake  of  happiness  on  earth ; 
And  to  be  happy  here  is  man's  chief  end, 
For  to  be  happy  he  must  needs  be  good." 

There  are  few  obstacles  that  perseverance  will 
not  overcome  ;  and  penury  and  a  parent's  obstinacy 
were  both  surmounted  by  Kirke  White's  importu- 


MEMOIR    OP   KIRKE    WHITE.  xvii 

nity.  Finding  it  useless  to  chain  him  longer  to  the 
hosier's  loom,  he  was  placed  in  the  office  of  Messrs. 
Coldham  and  Enfield,  Town -Clerk  and  attorneys 
of  Nottingham,  some  time  in  May,  1799,  when  he 
was  in  his  fifteenth  year ;  but  as  a  premium  could 
not  be  given  with  him,  it  was  agreed  that  he  should 
serve  two  years  before  he  was  articled.  A  few 
months  after  he  entered  upon  his  new  employment, 
he  began  a  correspondence  with  his  brother,  Mr. 
Neville  White,  who  was  then  a  medical  student  in 
London ;  and  in  a  letter,  dated  in  September,  1799, 
he  thus  spoke  of  his  situation  and  prospects : 

"  It  is  now  nearly  four  months  since  I  entered 
into  Mr.  Coldham's  office ;  and  it  is  with  pleasure 
I  can  assure  you,  that  I  never  yet  found  any  thing 
disagreeable,  but,  on  the  contrary,  every  thing  I 
do  seems  a  pleasure  to  me,  and  for  a  very  obvious 
reason,  —  it  is  a  business  which  I  like  —  a  business 
which  I  chose  before  all  others;,  and  I  have  two 
good-tempered,  easy  masters,  but  who  will,  never- 
theless, see  that  their  business  is  done  in  a  neat 
and  proper  manner."  —  "A  man  that  understands 
the  law  is  sure  to  have  business ;  and  in  case  I 
have  no  thoughts,  in  case,  that  is,  that  I  do  not 
aspire  to  hold  the  honourable  place  of  a  barrister, 
I  shall  feel  sure  of  gaining  a  genteel  livelihood  at 
the  business  to  which  I  am  articled." 

At  the  suggestion  of  his  employers,  he  devoted 
the  greater  part  of  his  leisure  to  Latin ;  and,  though 
he  was  but  slightly  assisted,  he  was  able  in  ten 

B 


XVU1  MEMOIR    OF    KIRKE    WHITE. 

months  to  read  Horace  with  tolerable  facility,  and 
had  made  some  progress  in  Greek.  Having  but 
little  time  for  these  pursuits,  he  accustomed  himself 
to  decline  the  Greek  nouns  and  verbs  during  his 
walks  to  and  from  the  office,  and  he  thereby 
acquired  a  habit  of  studying  while  walking,  that 
never  deserted  him.  The  account  which  Mr.  Sou- 
they  has  given  of  his  application,  and  of  the  success 
that  attended  it,  is  astonishing.  Though  living  with 
his  family,  he  nearly  estranged  himself  from  their 
society.  At  meals,  and  during  the  evenings,  a 
book  was  constantly  in  his  hands ;  and  as  he  re- 
fused to  sup  with  them,  to  prevent  any  loss  of 
time,  his  meal  was  sent  to  him  in  his  little  apart- 
ment. Law,  Greek,  Latin,  Italian,  Spanish,  and 
Portuguese,  chemistry,  astronomy,  electricity,  draw- 
ing, muaic,  and  mechanics,  by  turns  engaged  his 
attention ;  and  though  his  acquirements  in  some  of 
those  studies  were  very  superficial,  his  proficiency 
in  many  of  them  was  far  from  contemptible.  His 
papers  on  law  evince  so  much  industry,  that  had 
that  subject  alone  occupied  his  leisure  hours,  his 
diligence  would  have  been  commendable.  He  was 
a  tolerable  Italian  scholar,  and  in  the  classics  he 
afterwards  attained  reputation ;  but  of  the  sciences 
and  of  Spanish  and  Portuguese,  his  knowledge  was 
not,  it  may  be  inferred,  very  great.  His  ear  for 
music  was  good,  and  his  passionate  attachment  to 
it  is  placed  beyond  a  doubt  by  his  verses  on  its 
effects : 


MEMOIR    OF   KIRKE    WHITE.  XIX 

"  With  her  in  pensive  mood  I  long  to  roam 
At  midnight's  hour,  or  evening's  calm  decline, 
And  thoughtful  o'er  the  falling  streamlet's  foam, 
In  calm  Seclusion's  hermit-walks  recline.  " 

But  he  checked  his  ardour,  lest  it  might  interfere 
with  more  essential  studies :  and  his  musical  attain- 
ments were  limited  to  playing  pleasingly  on  the  pi- 
ano, composing  the  bass  to  the  air  at  the  same  time. 
Ambition  was  one  of  the  most  powerful  feelings  of 
his  nature,  and  it  is  rare  indeed,  when  it  is  not  the 
companion  of  great  talents.  It  developed  itself  first 
in  spurning  trade ;  and  no  sooner  did  he  find  him- 
self likely  to  become  an  attorney,  than  he  aspired  to 
the  bar.  But  his  earliest  and  strongest  passion  was 
for  literary  distinction ;  and  he  was  scarcely  remov- 
ed from  the  trammels  of  school,  before  he  sought 
admission  into  a  literary  society,  in  his  native  town. 
His  extreme  youth  rendered  him  objectionable ;  but, 
after  repeated  refusals,  he  at  last  succeeded.  In  the 
association  there  were  six  professors,  and  being,  on 
the  first  vacancy,  appointed  to  the  chair  of  literature, 
he  soon  justified  the  choice.  Taking  "genius"  as 
his  theme,  he  addressed  the  assembly  in  an  ex- 
temporaneous lecture  of  two  hours  and  three-quar- 
ters duration,  with  so  much  success,  that  the  audience 
unanimously  voted  him  their  thanks,  declaring  that 
"  the  society  had  never  heard  a  better  lecture  deliv- 
ered from  the  chair  which  he  so  much  honoured." 
To  judge  properly  of  this  circumstance,  it  would  be 
necessary  to  know  of  whom  the  society  was  com- 


XX  MEMOIR    OF    KIRKE    WHITE. 

posed ;  but  with  so  flattering  a  testimony  to  his  abili- 
ties, the  sanguine  boy  naturally  placed  a  high  esti- 
mate on  them. 

The  establishment  of  a  Magazine  called  the 
Monthly  Preceptor,  which  proposed  prize  themes 
for  young  persons,  afforded  Kirke  White  an  oppor- 
tunity of  trying  his  literary  powers.  In  a  letter 
written  in  June,  1800,  to  his  brother,  speaking  of 
that  work  he  says,  "  I  am  noticed  as  worthy  of 
commendation,  and  as  affording  an  encouraging 
prospect  of  future  excellence.  You  will  laugh.  I 
have  also  turned  poet,  and  have  translated  an  Ode 
of  Horace  into  English  verse."  His  productions 
gained  him  several  of  the  prizes ;  and  he  soon  after- 
wards became  a  contributor  to  the  Monthly  Mirror, 
his  compositions  in  which  attracted  the  attention  of 
Mr.  Hill,  the  proprietor  of  the  work,  and  of  Mr. 
Capel  Lofft,  a  gentleman  who  distinguished  himself 
by  his  patronage  of  Bloomfield. 

Though  on  entering  an  attorney's  office  the  bar 
was  the  object  of  his  hopes,  a  constitutional  deaf- 
ness soon  convinced  him  that  he  was  not  adapted 
for  the  duties  of  an  advocate ;  and  his  thoughts, 
from  conscientious  motives,  became  directed  to  the 
Church. 

When  about  fifteen,  his  mind  was  agitated  by 
doubt  and  anxiety  on  the  most  important  of  all 
subjects ;  and  the  chaos  of  opinions  which  exten- 
sive and  miscellaneous  reading  so  often  produces 
on  ardent  and  imaginative  temperaments,  is  well 


MEMOIR    OF   KIRKE    WHITE.  xxi 

described  in  his  little  poem  entitled,  "My  own 
Character,"  wherein  he  represents  himself  as  a 
prey  to  the  most  opposite  impressions,  and  as  being 
in  a  miserable  state  of  incertitude : 

"  First  I  premise  it's  my  honest  conviction, 
That  my  breast  is  the  chaos  of  all  contradiction, 
Beligious  —  deistic  —  now  loyal  and  warm, 
Then  a  dagger-drawn  democrat  hot  for  reform ; 


Now  moody  and  sad,  now  unthinking  and  gay, 
To  all  points  of  the  compass  I  veer  in  a  day." 

In  this  sketch  there  is  evidently  much  truth;  and 
it  affords  a  striking  idea  of  a  plastic  and  active 
mind,  on  which  every  thing  makes  an  impression, 
where  one  idea  follows  another  in  such  rapid  suc- 
cession, that  the  former  is  not  so  entirely  removed, 
but  that  some  remains  of  it  are  amalgamated  with 
its  successor.  A  youth  whose  intellect  is  thus 
tossed  in  a  whirlpool  of  conflicting  speculations, 
resembles  a  goodly  ship  newly  launched,  which, 
until  properly  steadied  by  ballast,  reels  from  side 
to  side,  the  sport  of  every  undulation  of  the  waters. 
About  this  tune  young  White's  religious  feelings 
were  strongly  affected  by  the  conversion  of  his 
friend,  Mr.  Almond,  whose  opinions  were  previ- 
ously as  unsettled  as  his  own.  To  escape  the  rail- 
lery with  which  he  expected  White  would  assail 
him  on  learning  the  change  in  his  sentiments,  Al- 
mond avoided  his  society;  and  when  his  friend 
offered  to  defend  his  opinions,  if  Henry  would 
allow  the  divine  originality  of  the  Bible,  he  ex- 


XXU  MEMOIR    OF    KIRKE    WHITE. 

claimed,  "  Good  God  I  you  surely  regard  me  in  a 
worse  light  than  I  deserve."  The  discussion  that 
followed,  and  the  perusal  of  Scott's  "  Force  of 
Truth,"  which  Almond  placed  in  his  hands,  induced 
him  to  direct  his  attention  seriously  to  the  subject; 
but  an  affecting  incident  soon  afterwards  showed 
how  deeply  he  was  then  influenced  by  religious 
considerations.  On  the  evening  before  Mr.  Al- 
mond left  Nottingham  for  Cambridge,  he  was  re- 
quested by  White  to  accompany  him  to  his  apart- 
ment. The  moment  they  entered,  Henry  burst 
into  tears,  declaring  that  his  anguish  of  mind  was 
insupportable ;  and  he  entreated  Almond  to  kneel 
and  pray  for  him.  Their  tears  and  supplications 
were  cordially  mingled,  and  when  they  were  about 
to  separate,  White  said,  "  What  must  I  do  ?  You 
are  the  only  friend  to  whom  I  can  apply  in  this 
agonizing  state,  and  you  are  about  to  leave  me. 
My  literary  associates  are  all  inclined  to  deism.  I 
have  no  one  with  whom  I  can  communicate." 

It  is  instructive  to  learn  to  what  circumstance 
such  a  person  as  Kirke  White  was  indebted  for 
the  knowledge  "  which  causes  not  to  err."  This 
information  occurs  hi  a  letter  from  him  to  a  Mr. 
Booth,  hi  August,  1801  ;  and  it  also  fixes  the  date 
of  the  happy  change  that  influenced  every  thought 
and  every  action  of  his  future  life,  which  gave  the 
energy  of  virtue  to  his  exertions,  soothed  the  asper- 
ities of  a  temper  naturally  impetuous  and  irritable, 
and  enabled  him,  at  a  period  when  manhood  is  full 


MEMOIR    OF    KIRKE    WHITE.  XX111 

of  hope  and  promise,  to  view  the  approaches  of 
death  with  the  calmness  of  a  philosopher,  and  the 
resignation  of  a  saint. 

After  thanking  Mr.  Booth  for  the  present  of 
Jones's  work  on  the  Trinity,  he  thus  describes  his 
religious  impressions  previous  to  its  perusal,  and 
the  effect  it  produced : 

"  Religious  polemics,  indeed,  have  seldom  formed 
a  part  of  my  studies ;  though  whenever  I  happened 
accidentally  to  turn  my  thoughts  to  the  subject  of 
the  Protestant  doctrine  of  the  Godhead,  and  com- 
pared it  with  Arian  and  Socinian,  many  doubts  in- 
terfered, and  I  even  began  to  think  that  the  more 
nicely  the  subject  was  investigated,  the  more  per- 
plexed it  would  appear,  and  was  on  the  point  of 
forming  a  resolution  to  go  to  heaven  in  my  own 
way,  without  meddling  or  involving  myself  in  the 
inextricable  labyrinth  of  controversial  dispute,  when 
I  received  and  perused  this  excellent  treatise,  which 
finally  cleared  up  the  mists  which  my  ignorance  had 
conjured  around  me,  and  clearly  pointed  out  the 
real  truth." 

From  the  moment  he  became  convinced  of  the 
truths  of  Christianity,  all  the  enthusiasm  of  his 
nature  was  kindled.  The  ministry  only,  was  deemed 
worthy  of  his  ambition ;  and  he  devoted  his 
thoughts  to  the  sacred  office  with  a  zeal  that  justified 
a  hope  of  the  richest  fruits.  In  a  letter  to  his 
friend,  Mr.  Almond,  in  November,  1803,  he  says, 

"My  dear  friend,  I  cannot  adequately  express 


XXIV  MEMOIR    OF    KIBKE    WHITE. 

what  I  owe  to  you  on  the  score  of  religion.  I  told 
Mr.  Robinson  you  were  the  first  instrument  of  my 
being  brought  to  think  deeply  on  religious  subjects ; 
and  I  feel  more  and  more  every  day,  that  if  it  had 
not  been  for  you,  I  might,  most  probably,  have  been 
now  buried  in  apathy  and  unconcern.  Though  I 
am  in  a  great  measure  blessed,  —  I  mean  blessed 
with  faith,  now  pretty  steadfast,  and  heavy  convic- 
tions, I  am  far  from  being  happy.  My  sins  have 
been  of  a  dark  hue,  and  manifold:  I  have  made 
Fame  my  God,  and  Ambition  my  shrine.  I  have 
placed  all  my  hopes  on  the  things  of  this  world. 
I  have  knelt  to  Dagon  ;  I  have  worshipped  the  evil 
creations  of  my  own  proud  heart,  and  God  had  well 
nigh  turned  his  countenance  from  me  in  wrath ;  per- 
haps one  step  further,  and  he  might  have  shut  me 
for  ever  from  bis  rest.  I  now  turn  my  eyes  to 
Jesus,  my  Saviour,  my  atonement,  with  hope  and 
confidence  :  he  will  not  repulse  the  imploring  peni- 
tent ;  his  arms  are  open  to  all,  they  are  open  even 
to  me ;  and  in  return  for  such  a  mercy,  what  can  I 
do  less  than  dedicate  my  whole  life  to  his  service  ? 
My  thoughts  would  fain  recur  at  intervals  to  my 
former  delights ;  but  I  am  now  on  my  guard  to  re- 
strain and  keep  them  in.  I  know  now  where  they 
ought  to  concentre,  and  with  the  blessing  of  God, 
they  shall  there  ah1  tend. 

"My  next  publication  of  poems  will  be  solely 
religious.  I  shall  not  destroy  those  of  a  different 
nature,  which  now  lie  before  me ;  but  they  will, 


MEMOIR    O^   KIRKE    WHITE.  XXV 

most  probably,  sleep  in  my  desk,  until,  in  the  good 
time  of  my  great  Lord  and  Master,  I  shall  receive 
my  passport  from  this  world  of  vanity.  I  am  now 
bent  on  a  higher  errand  than  that  of  the  attainment 
of  poetical  fame ;  poetry,  in  future,  will  be  my  re- 
laxation, not  my  employment.  —  Adieu  to  literary 
ambition  !  '  You  do  not  aspire  to  be  prime  minister,' 
said  Mr.  Robinson ;  '  you  covet  a  far  higher  charac- 
ter —  to  be  the  humblest  among  those  who  minister 
to  their  Maker.'" 

To  the  arguments  of  his  friends  on  the  impolicy 
of  quitting  a  profession  to  which  he  had  given  so 
much  of  his  time,  and  on  the  obstacles  to  the  attain- 
ment of  his  wishes,  he  was  impenetrable.  His  em- 
ployers generously  offered  to  cancel  his  articles  as 
soon  as  he  could  show  that  his  resources  were 
likely  to  support  him  at  the  University.  Friends 
arose  as  they  became  necessary,  and  more  than  one 
or  two  persons  exerted  themselves  to  promote  his 
views ;  but  his  principal  reliance  was  on  the  sale  of 
a  little  volume  of  Poems,  which,  at  the  suggestion  of 
Mr.  Capel  Lofft,  he  prepared  for  the  press. 

The  history  of  an  author's  first  book  is  always 
interesting,  and  Kirke  White's  was  attended  with 
unusual  incidents.  A  novice  in  literature  often 
imagines  that  it  is  important  his  work  should  be 
dedicated  to  some  person  of  rank ;  and  the  Countess 
of  Derby  was  applied  to,  who  declined,  on  the 
ground  that  she  never  accepted  a  compliment  of 
that  nature.  He  then  addressed  the  Duchess  of 


XXVI  MEMOIR    OF    KIRKE    WHITE. 

Devonshire ;  and  a  letter,  with  the  manuscript,  was 
left  at  her  house.  The  difficulty  of  obtaining  access 
to  her  Grace  proved  so  great,  that  more  than  one 
letter  to  his  brother  was  written  on  the  subject,  in 
which  he  indignantly  says,  "  I  am  cured  of  patron- 
age hunting ;  as  for  begging  patronage,  I  am  tired 
to  the  soul  of  it,  and  shall  give  it  up."  Permission 
to  inscribe  the  book  to  the  Duchess  was  at  length 
granted :  the  book  came  out  in  1803 ;  and  a  copy 
was  transmitted  to  her,  of  which,  however,  no  notice 
whatever  was  taken. 

On  the  publication  of  the  volume,  a  copy  was 
sent  to  each  Review,  with  a  letter  deprecatory  of 
the  severity  of  criticism,  an  act  as  ill  judged  as  it 
was  useless,  since  all  that  a  young  writer  could 
properly  say  was  to  be  found  in  the  preface,  in 
which  he  stated  that  his  inducement  to  publish  was, 
"  the  facilitation  through  its  means  of  those  studies 
which,  from  his  earliest  infancy,  have  been  the 
principal  objects  of  his  ambition,  and  the  increase 
of  the  capacity  to  pursue  these  inclinations,  which 
may  one  day  place  him  in  an  honourable  station  in 
the  scale  of  society." 

His  feelings  received  a  severe  wound  from  the 
notice  of  his  Poems  in  the  Monthly  Review,  the 
writer  of  which,  not  satisfied  with  saying  that  the 
production  did  not  "justify  any  sanguine  expecta- 
tions," selected  four  of  the  worst  lines  in  support  of 
his  opinion,  and  showed  himself  insensible  of  the 
numerous  beauties  scattered  through  the  various 


MEMOIR    OF    KIRKE    WHITE.  XXV11 

pieces.  Writing  to  a  friend  soon  afterwards,  he 
thus  spoke  of  himself;  and  more  mental  wretched- 
ness has  seldom  been  described: 

"  I  am  at  present  under  afflictions  and  conten- 
tions of  spirit,  heavier  than  I  have  yet  ever  experi- 
enced. I  think,  at  times,  I  am  mad,  and  destitute 
of  religion ;  my  pride  is  not  yet  subdued :  the  un- 
favourable review  (in  the  'Monthly')  of  my  un- 
happy work,  has  cut  deeper  than  you  could  have 
thought ;  not  in  a  literary  point  of  view,  but  as  it 
affects  my  respectability.  It  represents  m&  actually 
as  a  beggar,  going  about  gathering  money  to  put 
myself  at  college,  when  my  book  is  worthless ;  and 
this  with  every  appearance  of  candour.  They  have 
been  sadly  misinformed  respecting  me :  this  review 
goes  before  me  wherever  I  turn  my  steps ;  it  haunts 
me  incessantly,  and  I  am  persuaded  it  is  an  instru- 
ment in  the  hand  of  Satan  to  drive  me  to  dis- 
traction. I  must  leave  Nottingham.  If  the  answer 
of  the  Elland  Society  be  unfavourable,  I  purpose 
writing  to  the  Marquis  of  Wellesley,  to  offer  my- 
self as  a  student  at  the  academy  he  has  instituted  at 
Fort  William,  in  Bengal,  and  at  the  proper  age  to 
take  orders  there.  The  missionaries  at  that  place 
have  done  wonders  already ;  and  I  should,  I  hope, 
be  a  valuable  labourer  in  the  vineyard.  If  the 
Marquis  take  no  notice  of  my  application,  or  do  not 
accede  to  my  proposal,  I  shall  place  myself  in  some 
other  way  of  making  a  meet  preparation  for  the 
holy  office,  either  in  the  Calvinistic  Academy,  or  in 


XXV111  MEMOIR    OF   KIRKE    WHITE. 

one  of  the  Scotch  Universities,  where  I  shall  be  able 
to  live  at  scarcely  any  expense." 

The  criticism  just  adverted  to  was  as  unfeeling 
as  unjust;  and  but  for  the  generous  conduct  of~a 
distinguished  living  poet,  whose  benevolence  of 
heart  is  equal  to  his  genius,  it  might  have  entirely 
crushed  his  hopes.  Disgusted  at  the  injustice  of 
this  criticism,  Mr.  Southey  instantly  wrote  to  White, 
expressing  his  opinion  of  the  merits  of  his  book,  and 
giving  him  the  encouragement  and  advice  which 
none  was  ever  more  ready  or  more  able  to  bestow. 
Thus,  an  act  of  cruel  folly  proved  in  its  conse- 
quences the  most  beneficial  of  the  Poet's  life.  His 
spirits  were  invigorated  by  this  considerate  kind- 
ness, and  his  feelings  were  expressed  in  glowing 
terms: 

"  I  dare  not  say  all  I  feel  respecting  your  opinion 
of  my  little  volume.  The  extreme  acrimony  with 
which  the  Monthly  Review  (of  all  others  the  most 
important)  treated  me,  threw  me  into  a  state  of 
stupefaction.  I  regarded  all  that  had  passed  as  a 
dream,  and  I  thought  I  had  been  deluding  myself 
into  an  idea  of  possessing  poetic  genius,  when,  in 
fact,  I  had  only  the  longing,  without  the  afflatus. 
I  mustered  resolution  enough,  however,  to  write 
spiritedly  to  them :  their  answer,  in  the  ensuing 
number,  was  a  tacit  acknowledgment  that  they  had 
been  somewhat  too  unsparing  in  their  correction. 
It  was  a  poor  attempt  to  salve  over  a  wound  wan- 
tonly and  most  ungenerously  inflicted.  Still  I  wa& 


MEMOIR    OF    KIRKE    WHITE.  XXIX 

damped,  because  I  knew  the  work  was  very  respect- 
able ;  and  therefore  could  not,  I  concluded,  give  a 
criticism  grossly  deficient  in  equity,  the  more 
especially,  as  I  knew  of  no  sort  of  inducement  to 
extraordinary  severity.  Your  letter,  however,  has 
revived  me,  and  I  do  again  venture  to  hope  that  I 
may  still  produce  something  which  will  survive  me. 
With  regard  to  your  advice  and  offers  of  assistance, 
I  will  not  attempt,  because  I  am  unable,  to  thank 
you  for  them.  To-morrow  morning  I  depart  for 
Cambridge ;  and  I  have  considerable  hopes  that,  as 
I  do  not  enter  into  the  University  with  any  sinister 
or  interested  views,  but  sincerely  desire  to  perform 
the  duties  of  an  affectionate  and  vigilant  pastor,  and 
become  more  useful  to  mankind ;  I  therefore  have 
hopes,  I  say,  that  I  shall  find  means  of  support  in 
the  University.  If  I  do  not,  I  shall  certainly  act 
in  pursuance  of  your  recommendations ;  and  shall, 
without  hesitation,  avail  myself  of  your  offers  of 
service,  and  of  your  directions.  In  a  short  tune 
this  will  be  determined ;  and  when  it  is,  I  shall  take 
the  liberty  of  writing  to  you  at  Keswick,  to  make 
you  acquainted  with  the  result.  I  have  only  one 
objection  to  publishing  by  subscription,  and  I  con- 
fess it  has  weight  with  me ;  it  is,  that,  in  this  step,  I 
shall  seem  to  be  acting  upon  the  advice  so  unfeel- 
ingly and  contumeliously  given  by  the  Monthly 
Reviewers,  who  say  what  is  equal  to  this,  that  had 
I  gotten  a  subscription  for  my  poems  before  their 
merit  was  known,  I  might  have  succeeded;  pro- 


XXX  MEMOIR    OF    KIRKE    AVHITE. 

vided,  it  seems,  I  had  made  a  particular  statement 
of  my  case ;  like  a  beggar  who  stands  with  his  hat 
in  one  hand,  and  a  full  account  of  his  cruel  'treat- 
ment on  the  coast  of  Barbary  in  the  other,  and  so 
gives  you  his  penny  sheet  for  your  sixpence,  by 
way  of  half  purchase,  half  charity.  I  have  mate- 
rials for  another  volume ;  but  they  were  written 
principally  while  Clifton  Grove  was  in  the  press, 
or  soon  after,  and  do  not  now  at  all  satisfy  me.  In- 
deed, of  late,  I  have  been  obliged  to  desist,  almost 
entirely,  from  converse  with  the  dames  of  Helicon. 
The  drudgery  of  an  attorney's  office,  and  the  neces- 
sity of  preparing  myself,  in  case  I  should  succeed  in 
getting  to  college,  in  what  little  leisure  I  could  boast, 
left  no  room  for  the  flights  of  the  imagination." 

As  soon  as  there  were  reasonable  hopes  of  an 
adequate  support  being  obtained  for  him  at  Cam- 
bridge, he  went  to  the  village  of  Wilford,  for  a 
month,  to  recruit  his  health,  on  which  intense  appli- 
cation had  made  great  inroads.  Near  this  place 
were  Clifton  Woods,  the  subject  of  one  of  his 
Poems,  and  which  had  long  been  his  favourite 
resort.  Here  he  fully  indulged  in  that  love  of  the 
beauties  of  nature,  which  forms  a  leading  trait  in 
the  Poetic  character :  and  on  this  occasion  he  gave 
full  reins  to  those  reveries  of  the  imagination,  of  the 
delight  of  which  a  Poet  only  is  sensible.  His  lines 
on  "Wilford  Church  Yard  show  the  melancholy  tone 
of  his  mind ;  and  those  Verses,  as  well  as  his  "  Ode 
to  Disappointment,"  of  which  no  praise  would  be 


MEMOIR    OF   KIRKE    WHITE.  XXXI 

too  extravagant,  appear  to  have  been  written,  on 
learning  from  his  mother,  before  he  left  "Wilford, 
that  the  efforts  made  to  place  him  at  Cambridge 
had  failed.  It  was  evidently  to  this  circumstance, 
which  for  the  time  blighted  his  aspirations,  that  he 
alluded,  when  he  says  he  was, 

"From  Hope's  summit  hurl' d." 

His  remark  to  his  mother  on  this  occasion  evinced, 
nevertheless,  great  energy  of  mind.  His  complaints 
were  confined  to  verse,  for  the  disappointment  had 
no  other  effect  upon  his  conduct  than  to  induce  him 
to  apply  to  his  studies  with  unprecedented  vigour, 
that,  since  he  was  to  revert  to  the  law  as  a  profes- 
sion, he  might  not  be,  as  he  observed,  "  a  mediocre 
attorney."  He  read  regularly  from  five  in  the 
morning  until  some  time  after  midnight,  and  occa- 
sionally passed  whole  nights  without  lying  down ; 
and  the  entreaties,  even  when  accompanied  by  the 
tears  of  his  mother,  that  he  would  not  thus  destroy 
his  health,  did  not  induce  him  to  relax  his  zeal. 

Symptoms  of  consumption,  the  disease  to  which 
he  ultimately  became  a  victim,  and  which  he  desig- 
nates, in  one  of  his  many  allusions  to  it,  as 

"The  most  fatal  of  Pandora's  train," 

began  now  to  excite  the  anxiety  of  his  family.  Ill- 
ness was,  however,  forgotten  in  the  realization  of 
the  hope  dearest  to  his  heart.  The  exertions  of 
his  friends  proved  successful  at  a  time  when  all 


XXX11  MEMOIR    OF   KIRKE    WHITE. 

expectations  had  vanished;  and  by  their  united 
efforts  it  was  resolved  that  he  should  become  a 
sizar  of  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge,  his  brother 
Neville,  his  mother,  and  a  benevolent  individual, 
whose  name  is  not  mentioned,  having  agreed  to 
contribute  to  support  him.  It  appears,  that  if  he 
had  not  succeeded  in  that  object,  he  intended  to 
have  joined  the  society  of  orthodox  dissenters,  for 
which  purpose  he  underwent  an  examination. 
Though  his  attainments  and  character  proved  sat- 
isfactory on  that  occasion,  his  volume  of  Poems 
rose  in  judgment  against  him,  and  nothing  but  the 
approbation  Mr.  Southey  had  expressed  of  them 
prevented  his  work  from  being  considered  a  dis- 
qualification for  the  ministry.  His  feelings  on  the 
prospect  of  entering  the  Church  are  described  with 
great  force  in  his  letter,  dated  in  April,  1804. 

"  Most  fervently  do  I  return  thanks  to  God  for 
this  providential  opening :  it  has  breathed  new  ani- 
mation into  me,  and  my  breast  expands  with  the 
prospect  of  becoming  the  minister  of  Christ  where 
I  most  desired  it ;  but  where  I  almost  feared  all 
probability  of  success  was  nearly  at  an  end.  In- 
deed, I  had  begun  to  turn  my  thoughts  to  the  dis- 
senters, as  people  of  whom  I  was  destined,  not  by 
choice,  but  necessity,  to  become  the  pastor.  Still, 
although  I  knew  I  should  be  happy  anywhere,  so 
that  I  were  a  profitable  labourer  in  the  vineyard,  I 
did,  by  no  means,  feel  that  calm,  that  indescribable 
satisfaction  which  I  do  when  I  look  toward  that 


MEMOIR    OP   KIRKE   WHITE.  XXxiti 

Church,  which  I  think  in  the  main  formed  on  the 
apostolic  model,  and  from  which  I  am  decidedly  of 
opinion  there  is  no  positive  grounds  for  dissent. 
I  return  thanks  to  God  for  keeping  me  so  long  in 
suspense,  for  I  know  it  has  been  beneficial  to  my 
soul,  and  I  feel  a  considerable  trust  that  the  way  is 
now  about  to  be  made  clear,  and  that  my  doubts 
and  fears  on  this  head  will,  in  due  tune,  be  re- 
moved." 

Being  advised  to  degrade  for  a  year,  and  to 
place  himself  with  a  private  tutor,  he  went  to  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Grainger  of  Winteringham,  in  Lincoln- 
shire, in  the  autumn  of  1804.  While  under  that 
gentleman's  care  he  studied  with  such  intense  fer- 
vour, that  fears  were  excited  not  for  his  health  only, 
but  for  his  intellect ;  and  a  second  severe  attack  of 
illness  was  the  consequence.  Poetry  was  now  laid 
aside,  and  as  he  himself  told  a  friend  in  February, 
1805, 

"My  poor  neglected  Muse  has  lain  absolutely 
unnoticed  by  me  for  the  last  four  months,  during 
which  period  I  have  been  digging  in  the  mines  of 
Scapula  for  Greek  roots,  and  instead  of  drinking 
with  eager  delight  the  beauties  of  Virgil  have  been 
culh'ng  and  drying  his  phrases  for  future  use."  — 
"  I  fear  my  good  genius,  who  was  wont  to  visit  me 
with  nightly  visions  in  woods  and  brakes  and  by 
the  river's  marge,  is  now  dying  of  a  fen  ague,  and 
I  shall  thus  probably  emerge  from  my  retreat  not 
a  hare-brained  son  of  imagination,  but  a  sedate 
c 


XXXIV  MEMOIR    OP    KIRKE    WHITE. 

black-lettered  book  worm,  with  a  head  like  an  ety- 
mologicon  magnum." 

To  Mr.  Capel  Lofft,  in  the  September  following, 
after  stating  that  all  his  time  was  employed  in  pre- 
paring himself  for  orders,  his  estimate  of  the  neces- 
sary qualifications  being  very  high,  he  observed  : 

"I  often,  however,  cast  a  look  of  fond  regret  to 
the  darling  occupations  of  my  younger  hours,  and 
the  tears  rush  into  my  eyes,  as  I  fancy  I  see  the 
few  wild  flowers  of  poetic  genius,  with  which  I  have 
been  blessed,  withering  with  neglect.  Poetry  has 
been  to  me  something  more  than  amusement ;  it 
has  been  a  cheering  companion  when  ^  have  had 
no  other  to  fly  to,  and  a  delightful  solace  when 
consolation  has  been  in  some  measure  needful.  I 
cannot,  therefore,  discard  so  old  and  faithful  a  friend 
without  deep  regret,  especially  when  I  reflect  that, 
stung  by  my  ingratitude,  he  may  desert  me  for  ever!" 

But  the  old  fire  was,  he  adds,  rekindled  by  look- 
ing over  some  of  his  pieces  which  Mr.  Lofft  wished 
to  print;  and  he  transmitted  to  that  gentleman  a 
short  Poem,  expressive  of  his  sorrow  at  taking 
leave  of  his  favourite  pursuit.  The  following  pas- 
sages could  only  have  arisen  from  a  love  of  Poetry, 
which  it  was  not  in  the  power  of  severer  studies  to 
extinguish : 

Heart-soothing  Poesy  !    Though  thou  hast  ceased 
To  hover  o'er  the  many  voiced  strings 
Of  my  long  silent  lyre,  yet  thou  canst  still 
Call  the  warm  tear  from  its  thrice  hallow'd  cell, 


MEMOIR    OF    KIRKE    WHITE.  XXXV 

And  with  recalled  images  of  bliss 
Warm  my  reluctant  heart.    Yes,  I  would  throw, 
Once  more  would  throw,  a  quick  and  hurried  hand 
O'er  the  responding  chords.    It  hath  not  ceased, 
It  cannot,  will  not  cease ;  the  heavenly  warmth 
Plays  round  my  heart,  and  mantles  o'er  my  cheek ; 
Still,  though  unbidden,  plays.    Fair  Poesy ! 
The  summer  and  the  spring,  the  wind  and  ram, 
Sunshine  and  storm,  with  various  interchange, 
Have  mark'd  full  many  a  day,  and  week,  and  month, 
Since  by  dark  wood,  or  hamlet  far  retired, 
Spell-struck,  with  thee  I  loiter' d.     Sorceress! 
I  cannot  burst  thy  bonds ! 

In  October,  1805,  Kirke  White  became  a  resident 
member  of  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge ;  and 
such  was  the  use  he  had  made  of  his  time  at  Win- 
teringham,  that  he  was  distinguished  for  his  clas- 
sical knowledge.  Bui  he  had  dearly  purchased  his 
superiority.  His  constitution  was  much  shattered 
when  he  went  to  Mr.  Grainger,  and  every  day 
brought  with  it  new  proofs  that  his  career  had 
nearly  reached  its  bounds.  The  only  chance  of 
prolonging  his  life  was  to  seek  a  milder  climate, 
and  to  abandon  study  entirely.  As  in  all  great 
minds,  Fame  was,  however,  dearer  to  him  than 
existence.  He  felt  that  every  tiling  connected  with 
his  future  prospects  was  at  stake ;  and  he  adhered 
to  a  course  of  rigorous  application  until  nature 
gave  way.  During  his  first  term  he  became  a 
candidate  for  one  of  the  University  scholarships ; 
but  the  increased  exertion  he  underwent  was  at- 
tended by  results  that  obliged  him  to  retire  from 


XXXVI  MEMOIR    OF    KIRKE    WHITE. 

the  contest.  At  this  moment  the  general  college 
examination  approached,  and  thinking  that  if  he 
failed  his  hopes  would  be  blasted  for  ever,  he 
taxed  his  energies  to  the  uttermost,  during  the 
fortnight  which  intervened,  to  meet  the  trial. 
His  illness,  however,  speedily  returned;  and,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  he  informed  his  tutor,  Mr.  Catton, 
that  he  could  not  go  into  the  Hall  to  be  examined. 
That  gentleman,  whose  kindness  to  the  Poet  en- 
titles his  name  to  respect,  urged  him  to  support 
himself  during  the  six  days  of  the  examination. 
Powerful  stimulants  were  administered,  and  he  was 
pronounced  the  first  man  of  his  year.  The  triumph, 
complete  and  exhilarating  as  it  was,  too  closely  re- 
sembled that  of  the  generous  steed,  who,  in  dis- 
tancing his  competitors,  reaches  the  goal,  and  dies  ; 
and  his  own  ideas  of  the  sacrifices  with  wliich  such 
an  honour  must  be  attended  were  very  poetical. 
He  said  to  an  intimate  friend,  almost  the  last  time 
he  saw  him,  that  were  he  to  paint  a  picture  of 
Fame  crowning  a  distinguished  undergraduate 
after  the  senate-house  examination,  he  would  repre- 
sent her  as  concealing  a  death's  head  under  a  mask 
of  beauty. 

Soon  after  this  event,  Kirke  White  went  to 
London,  and  on  Christmas  eve  he  wrote  to  his 
mother  from  town,  stating  that  his  health  had  been 
rather  affected  by  study,  that  he  came  to  London 
for  amusement,  and  that  his  tutor  had,  in  the  kind- 
est manner,  relieved  his  mind  from  pecuniary  cares, 


MEMOIR    OF   KIKKE    WHITE.  XXXV11 

and  cheered  him  with  the  assurance  that  his  talents 
would  be  rewarded  by  his  College.  But  it  is  from 
his  letters  to  his  friend  Mr.  Haddock  that  the  real 
state  to  which  excitement  and  labour  had  reduced 
him,  is  to  be  learnt,  because,  to  allay  the  fears  of  his 
relations,  he  represented  himself  to  them,  as  being 
much  better  than  he  actually  was  : 

London,  Christmas,  1805. 

"  I  wrote  you  a  letter,  which  now  lies  in  my 
drawer  at  St.  John's ;  but  in  such  a  weak  state  of 
body,  and  in  so  desponding  and  comfortless  a  tone 
of  mind,  that  I  knew  it  would  give  you  pain,  and 
therefore  I  chose  not  to  send  it.  I  have  indeed 
been  ill;  but  thanks  to  God,  I  am  recovered.  My 
nerves  were  miserably  shattered  by  over  applica- 
tion, and  the  absence  of  all  that  could  amuse,  and  the 
presence  of  many  things  which  weighed  heavy  upon 
my  spirits.  When  I  found  myself  too  ill  to  read, 
and  too  desponding  to  endure  my  own  reflections, 
I  discovered  that  it  is  really  a  miserable  thing  to 
be  destitute  of  the  soothing  and  supporting  hand 
when  nature  most  needs  it.  I  wandered  up  and 
down  from  one  man's  room  to  another,  and  from 
one  College  to  another,  imploring  society,  a  little 
conversation,  and  a  little  relief  of  the  burden  which 
pressed  upon  my  spirits ;  and  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
that  those  who,  when  I  was  cheerful  and  lively, 
sought  my  society  with  avidity,  now,  when  I 
actually  needed  conversation,  were  too  busy  to 


XXXV111  MEMOIR   OF    KIBKE    WHITE. 

grant  it.  Our  College  examination  was  then  ap- 
proaching, and  I  perceived  with  anguish  that  I  had 
read  for  the  university  scholarship  until  I  had  barely 
time  to  get  up  our  private  subjects,  and  that  as  I 
was  now  too  ill  to  read,  all  hope  of  getting  through 
the  examination  with  decent  respectability  was  at 
an  end.  This  was  an  additional  grief.  I  went  to 
our  tutor,  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  and  told  him  I 
must  absent  myself  from  the  examination,  —  a  step 
which  would  have  precluded  me  from  a  station 
amongst  the  prize-men  until  the  second  year.  He 
earnestly  entreated  me  to  run  the  risk.  My  sur- 
geon gave  me  strong  stimulants  and  supporting 
medicines  during  the  examination -week  ;  and  I 
passed,  I  believe,  one  of  the  most  respectable 
examinations  amongst  them.  As  soon  as  ever  it 
was  over,  I  left  Cambridge,  by  the  advice  of  my 
surgeon  and  tutor,  and  I  feel  myself  now  pretty 
strong.  I  have  given  up  the  thought  of  sitting  for 
the  University  scholarship,  in  consequence  of  my 
illness,  as  the  course  of  my  reading  was  effectually 
broken.  In  this  place  I  have  been  much  amused, 
and  have  been  received  with  an  attention  in  the  lite- 
rary circles  which  I  neither  expected  nor  deserved. 
But  this  does  not  affect  me  as  it  once  would  have 
done :  my  views  are  widely  altered ;  and  I  hope 
that  I  shall  in  tune  learn  to  lay  my  whole  heart  at 
the  foot  of  the  cross." 

Early  in  January  following  he  returned  to  Cam- 


MEMOIR    OF    KIRKE    WHITE.  XXXLX 

bridge,  and  imprudently  resumed  his  old  habits  of 
study,  according  to  the  following  plan :  "  Rise  at 
half-past  five ;  devotions  and  walk  till  seven  ;  chapel 
and  breakfast  till  eight ;  study  and  lectures  till  one  ; 
four  and  a  half  clear  reading ;  walk,  &c.  and  dinner, 
and  Wollaston,  and  chapel  to  six ;  six  to  nine  read- 
ing, three  hours ;  nine  to  ten  devotions ;  bed  at  ten." 
With  him,  however,  exercise  was  but  slight  relaxa- 
tion, as  his  intellectual  faculties  were  kept  on  the 
stretch  during  his  walks,  and  he  is  known  to  have 
committed  to  memory  a  whole  tragedy  of  Euripides 
in  this  manner,  and  as  they  were  not  less  exerted  in 
his  devotions,  his  mind  must  have  been  intensely 
occupied  for  twelve  or  fourteen  hours  a  day,  at  a 
moment  when  perfect  quiet  and  rest  were  indis- 
pensable. Within  a  very  few  weeks  he  paid  a 
heavy  penalty  for  his  indiscretion.  To  his  friend, 
Mr.  Maddock,  he  wrote  on  the  17th  of  February, 
1806: 

"  Do  not  think  I  am  reading  hard ;  I  believe  it  is 
all  over  with  that.  I  have  had  a  recurrence  of  my 
old  complaint  within  this  last  four  or  five  days, 
which  has  half  unnerved  me  for  every  thing.  The 
state  of  my  health  is  really  miserable ;  I  am  well 
and  lively  hi  the  morning,  and  overwhelmed  with 
nervous  horrors  in  the  evening.  I  do  not  know 
how  to  proceed  with  regard  to  my  studies :  —  a  very 
slight  overstretch  of  the  mind  in  the  daytime 
occasions  me  not  only  a  sleepless  night,  but  a  night 


xl  MEMOIR    OF   KURKE    WHITE. 

of  gloom  and  horror.  The  systole  and  diastole  of 
my  heart  seem  to  be  playing  at  ball  —  the  stake, 
my  life.  I  can  only  say  the  game  is  not  yet 
decided:  —  I  allude  to  the  violence  of  the  palpita- 
tion. I  am  going  to  mount  the  Gog-magog  hills 
this  morning,  in  quest  of  a  good  night's  sleep.  The 
Gog-magog  hills  for  my  body,  and  the  Bible  for 
my  mind,  are  my  only  medicines.  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  that  neither  are  quite  adequate.  Cui,  igitur ; 
dandum  est  vitio?  Mihi  prorsus.  I  hope,  as  the 
summer  comes,  my  spirits  (which  have  been  with 
the  swallows,  a  winter's  journey)  will  come  with  it. 
When  my  spirits  are  restored,  my  health  will  be 
restored:  —  the  'fons  mali'  lies  there.  Give  me 
serenity  and  equability  of  mind,  and  all  will  be  well." 

He,  however,  rallied  again ;  but  he  seems  to  have 
been  aware  that  his  end  was  not  far  distant,  for  in 
March  he  told  his  brother  that  though  his  stay  at 
Cambridge,  in  the  long  vacation,  was  important,  he 
intended  to  go  to  Nottingham  for  his  health,  and 
more  particularly  for  his  mother's  sake;  adding, 
"  I  shah1  be  glad  to  moor  all  my  family  in  the  har- 
bour of  religious  trust,  and  in  the  calm  seas  of 
religious  peace.  These  concerns  are  apt  at  times 
to  escape  me ;  but  they  now  press  much  upon  my 
heart,  and  I  think  it  is  my  first  duty  to  see  that  my 
family  are  safe  in  the  most  important  of  all  affairs." 

In  April,  however,  he  drew  a  pleasing  picture 
of  his  future  life,  in  which  his  filial  and  paternal 


MEMOIR    OF   KIKKK    WHITE.  xli 

tenderness  are  conspicuous ;  but  he  soon  afterwards 
went  to  Nottingham ;  and  in  a  letter  to  his  friend 
Mr.  Leeson,  written  from  that  town,  on  the  7th  of 
April,  he  gave  a  very  melancholy  account  of  him- 
self: 

"  It  seems  determined  upon,  by  my  mother,  that 
1  cannot  be  spared,  since  the  time  of  my  stay  is 
so  very  short,  and  my  health  so  very  uncertain. 
The  people  here  can  scarcely  be  persuaded  that 
any  thing  ails  me ;  so  well  do  I  look ;  but  occasional 
depressions,  especially  after  any  thing  has  occurred 
to  occasion  uneasiness,  still  harass  me.  My  mind 
is  of  a  very  peculiar  cast.  I  began  to  think  too  _ 
early;  and  the  indulgence  of  certain  trains  of 
thought,  and  too  free  an  exercise  of  the  imagination, 
have  superinduced  a  morbid  kind  of  sensibility ; 
which  is  to  the  mind  what  excessive  irritability  is 
to  the  body.  Some  circumstances  occurred  on  my 
arrival  at  Nottingham,  which  gave  me  just  cause 
for  inquietude  and  anxiety ;  the  consequences  were 
insomnia,  and  a  relapse  into  causeless  dejections. 
It  is  my  business  now  to  curb  these  irrational  and 
immoderate  affections,  and,  by  accustoming  myself 
to  sober  thought  and  cool  reasoning,  to  restrain 
these  freaks  and  vagaries  of  the  fancy,  and  redun- 
dancies of  ntku'/yotiu.  When  I  am  well,  1  cannot 
help  entertaining  a  sort  of  contempt  for  the  weak- 
ness of  mind  which  marks  my  indispositions.  Titus 
when  well,  and  Titus  when  ill,  are  two  distinct 


xlii  MEMOIR    OF   KIRKE    WHITE. 

persons.  The  man,  when  in  health,  despises  the 
man,  when  ill,  for  his  weakness,  and  the  latter 
envies  the  former  for  his  felicity." 

As  his  health  declined  his  prospects  seemed  to 
brighten.  He  was  again  pronounced  first  at  the 
great  College  examination ;  he  was  one  of  the  three 
best  theme  writers,  whose  merits  were  so  nearly 
equal  that  the  examiners  could  not  decide  between 
them ;  and  he  was  a  prize-man  both  in  the  mathe- 
matical and  logical  or  general  examination,  and  in 
Latin  composition.  His  College  offered  him  a 
private  tutor  at  its  expense,  and  Mr.  Catton  ob- 
tained exhibitions  for  him  to  the  value  of  sixty -six 
pounds  per  annum,  by  which  he  was  enabled  to 
give  up  the  pecuniary  assistance  he  had  received 
from  his  friends.  But  even  at  this  moment,  when 
the  world  promised  so  much,  his  situation  was  truly 
deplorable.  The  highest  honours  of  the  University 
were  supposed  to  be  within  his  grasp,  and  the 
conviction  that  such  was  the  general  opinion, 
goaded  him  on  to  the  most  strenuous  exertions 
when  he  was  incapable  of  the  slightest.  This 
struggle  between  his  mental  and  physical  powers, 
was  not,  however,  of  long  duration.  In  July  he 
was  seized  with  an  attack  that  threatened  his  life, 
and  which  he  thus  described  in  a  letter  to  Mr. 
Maddock : 

"Last  Saturday  morning  I  rose  early,  and  got 


MEMOIR    OF   KIRKE    WHITE.  xliii 

up  some  rather  abstruse  problems  in  mechanics  for 
my  tutor,  spent  an  hour  with  him,  between  eight 
and  nine  got  my  breakfast,  and  read  the  Greek 
History  (at  breakfast)  till  ten,  then  sat  down  to 
decipher  some  logarithm  tables.  I  think  I  had 
not  done  any  thing  at  them,  when  I  lost  myself. 
At  a  quarter  past  eleven  my  laundress  found  me 
bleeding  in  four  different  places  in  my  face  and 
head,  and  insensible.  I  got  up  and  staggered 
about  the  room,  and  she,  being  frightened,  ran 
away,  and  told  my  gyp  to  fetch  a  surgeon.  Before 
he  came  I  was  sallying  out  with  my  flannel  gown 
on,  and  my  academical  gown  over  it ;  he  made  me 
put  on.  my  coat,  and  then  I  went  to  Mr.  Parish's : 
he  opened  a  vein,  and  my  recollection  returned. 
My  own  idea  was,  that  I  had  fallen  out  of  bed, 
and  so  I  told  Mr.  Farish  at  first ;  but  I  afterwards 
remembered  that  I  had  been  to  Mr.  Fiske,  and 
breakfasted.  Mr.  Catton  has  insisted  on  my  con- 
sulting Sir  Isaac  Pennington,  and  the  consequence 
is,  that  I  am  to  go  through  a  course  of  blistering, 
&c.  which,  after  the  bleeding,  will  leave  me  weak 
enough. 

"I  am,  however,  very  well,  except  as  regards 
the  doctors,  and  yesterday  I  drove  into  the  country 
to  Saffron  Walden,  in  a  gig.  My  tongue  is  in  a 
bad  condition,  from  a  bite  which  I  gave  it  either  in 
my  fall,  or  in  the  moments  of  convulsion.  My 
nose  has  also  come  badly  off.  I  believe  I  fell 
against  my  reading-desk.  My  other  wounds  are 


xliv  MEMOIR    OF    KIRKE    WHITE. 

only  rubs  and  scratches  on  the  carpet.  I  am 
ordered  to  remit  my  studies  for  a  while,  by  the 
common  advice  both  of  doctors  and  tutors.  Dr. 
Pennington  hopes  to  prevent  any  recurrence  of  the 
fit.  He  thinks  it  looks  towards  epilepsy,  of  the 
horrors  of  which  malady  I  have  a  very  full  and 
precise  idea ;  and  I  only  pray  that  God  will  spare 
me  as  respects  my  faculties,  however  else  it  may 
seem  good  to  him  to  afflict  me.  Were  I  my  own 
master,  I  know  how  I  should  act ;  but  I  am  tied 
here  by  bands  which  I  cannot  burst.  I  know  that 
change  of  place  is  needful ;  but  I  must  not  indulge 
in  the  idea.  The  college  must  not  pay  my  tutor 
for  nothing.  Dr.  Pennington  and  Mr.  Parish 
attribute  the  attack  to  a  too  continued  tension  of 
the  faculties.  As  I  am  much  alone  now,  I  never 
get  quite  off  study,  and  I  think  incessantly.  I 
know  nature  will  not  endure  this.  They  both 
proposed  my  going  home,  but  Mr.  *  *  did  not 
hint  at  it,  although  much .  concerned ;  and,  indeed, 
I  know  home  would  be  a  bad  place  for  me  in  my 
present  situation.  I  look  round  for  a  resting 
place,  and  I  find  none.  Yet  there  is  one,  which  I 
have  long  too,  too  much  disregarded,  and  thither  I 
must  now  betake  myself.  There  are  many  situa- 
tions worse  than  mine,  and  I  have  no  business  to 
complain.  If  these  afflictions  should  draw  the  bonds 
tighter  which  hold  me  to  my  Redeemer,  it  will  be 
well.  You  may  be  assured  that  you  have  here  a 
plain  statement  of  my  case  in  its  true  colours  with- 


MEMOIR    OF   KIEKE    WHITE.  xlv 

out  any  palliation.  I  am  now  well  again,  and  have 
only  to  fear  a  relapse,  which  I  shall  do  all  I  can  to 
prevent,  by  a  relaxation  in  study.  I  have  now 
written  too  much. 

"  I  am,  very  sincerely  yours, 

«  H.  K.  WHITE. 

"  P.  S.  I  charge  you,  as  you  value  my  peace, 
not  to  let  my  friends  hear,  either  directly  or  indi- 
rectly, of  my  illness." 

A  few  weeks  afterwards  he  again  directed  his 
mother's  hopes  to  a  tranquil  retreat  for  his  family 
in  his  parsonage,  but  said  nothing  of  his  illness; 
and  he  told  Mr.  Maddock,  in  September, 

"  I  am  perfectly  well  again,  and  have  experienced 
no  recurrence  of  the  fit :  my  spirits,  too,  are  better, 
and  I  read  very  moderately.  I  hope  that  God  will 
be  pleased  to  spare  his  rebellious  child ;  this  stroke 
has  brought  me  nearer  to  Him ;  whom  indeed  have 
I  for  my  comforter  but  Hun  ?  I  am  still  reading, 
but  with  moderation,  as  I  have  been  during  the 
whole  vacation,  whatever  you  may  persist  in  think- 
ing. My  heart  turns  with  more  fondness  towards 
the  consolations  of  religion  than  it  did,  and  in  some 
degree  I  have  found  consolation." 

But  notwithstanding  these  flattering  expressions, 
he  appears  to  have  felt  that  he  had  but  a  short  time 
to  live ;  and  it  was  probably  about  this  period  that 
he  wrote  his  lines  on  the  "  Prospect  of  Death,"  per- 


MEMOIR    OF   KIRKE    WHITE. 

haps  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  affecting  com- 
positions in  our  language : 

"  On  my  bed,  in  wakeful  restlessness, 
I  turn  me  wearisome ;  while  all  around, 
All,  all,  save  me,  sink  in  forgetfulness ; 
I  only  wake  to  watch  the  sickly  taper 
Which  lights  me  to  my  tomb.  —  Yes,  'tis  the  hand 
Of  Death  I  feel  press  heavy  on  my  vitals, 
Slow  sapping  the  warm  current  of  existence. 
My  moments  now  are  few  —  the  sand  of  life 
Ebbs  fastly  to  its  finish.    Yet  a  little, 
And  the  last  fleeting  particle  will  fall, 
Silent,  unseen,  unnoticed,  unlamented. 
Come  then,  sad  Thought,  and  let  us  meditate 
While  meditate  we  may. 


I  hoped  I  should  not  leave 
The  earth  without  a  vestige;  Fate  decrees 
It  shall  be  otherwise,  and  I  submit. 
Henceforth,  0  world,  no  more  of  thy  desires ! 
No  more  of  Hope !  the  wanton  vagrant  Hope ; 
I  abjure  all.    Now  other  cares  engross  me, 
And  my  tired  soul,  with  emulative  haste, 
Looks  to  its  God,  and  prunes  its  wings  for  Heaven." 

On  the  22nd  of  September  he  wrote  to  Mr. 
Charlesworth,  and  his  letter  indicates  the  possession 
of  higher  spirits  and  more  sanguine  hopes,  than 
almost  any  other  in  his  correspondence.  About  the 
end  of  that  month  he  went  to  London,  on  a  visit 
to  his  brother  Neville,  but  returned  to  College  with- 
in a  few  weeks,  in  a  state  that  precluded  all  chance 
of  prolonging  his  existence ;  but  still  he  did  not 
cease  to  hope,  or  rather  sought  to  delude  his  brother 
into  the  belief  that  he  should  recover  ;  for  in  a  letter 


MEMOIR    OF   KJRKE    WHITE.  xlvii 

addressed  to  him,  which  was  found  in  his  pocket 
after  his  decease,  dated  Saturday,  llth  of  October, 
he  says, 

"  I  am  safely  arrived,  and  in  College,  but  my 
illness  has  increased  upon  me  much.  The  cough 
continues,  and  is  attended  with  a  good  deal  of 
fever.  I  am  under  the  care  of  Mr.  Farish,  and 
entertain  very  little  apprehension  about  the  cough  ; 
but  my  over-exertions  in  town  have  reduced  me  to 
a  state  of  much  debility ;  and,  until  the  cough  be 
gone,  I  cannot  be  permitted  to  take  any  strengthen- 
ing medicines.  This  places  me  in  an  awkward 
predicament ;  but  I  think  I  perceive  a  degree  of 
expectoration  this  morning,  which  will  soon  relieve 
me,  and  then  I  shall  mend  apace.  Under  these 
circumstances  I  must  not  expect  to  see  you  here  at 
present ;  when  I  am  a  little  recovered,  it  will  be  a 
pleasant  relaxation  to  me.  Our  lectures  began  on 
Friday,  but  I  do  not  attend  them  until  I  am  better. 
I  have  not  written  to  my  mother,  nor  shall  I  while 
I.  remain  unwell.  You  will  tell  her,  as  a  reason, 
that  our  lectures  began  on  Friday.  I  know  she 
will  be  uneasy  if  she  do  not  hear  from  me,  and  still 
more  so,  if  I  tell  her  I  am  ill. 

"  I  cannot  write  more  at  present  than  that  I  am 
"  Your  truly  affectionate  Brother, 

«  H.  K.  WHITE." 

A  friend  acquainted  his  brother  with  his  situa- 


xlviii  MEMOIR    OF   KIRKE    WHITE. 

tion,  who  hastened  to  him ;  but  when  he  arrived  he 
was  delirious,  and  though  reason  returned  for  a  few 
moments,  as  if  to  bless  him  with  the  consciousness 
that  the  same  fond  relative,  to  whose  attachment 
he  owed  so  much,  was  present  at  his  last  hour,  he 
sunk  into  a  stupor,  and  on  Sunday,  the  19th  of 
October,  1806,  he  breathed  his  last. 

Thus  died,  in  his  twenty-second  year,  Henry 
Kirke  White,  whose  genius  and  virtues  justified 
the  brightest  hopes,  and  whose  fitness  for  Heaven 
does  not  bring  the  consolation  for  his  untimely  fate 
which  perhaps  it  ought.  It  is  impossible  to  refrain 
from  anticipating  what  his  talents  might  have  pro- 
duced, had  his  existence  been  extended ;  and  though 
it  is  extremely  doubtful  if  he  were  capable  of  worldly 
happiness,  there  is  a  selfishness  in  our  nature  which 
makes  us  grieve  when  those  who  are  h'kely  to  in- 
crease our  intellectual  pleasures  are  hurried  to  the 
grave. 

In  whatever  light  the  character  of  this  unhappy 
youth  be  contemplated,  it  is  full  of  instruction. 
His  talents  were  unusually  precocious,  and  their 
variety  was  as  astonishing  as  their  extent  Besides 
the  Poetical  pieces  in  this  volume,  and  his  scholastic 
attainments,  his  ability  was  manifested  in  various 
other  ways.  His  style  was  remarkable  for  its 
clearness  and  elegance,  and  his  correspondence  and 
prose  pieces  show  extensive  information.  To  great 
genius  and  capacity,  he  united  the  rarest  and  more 
important  gifts  of  sound  judgment  and  common 


MEMOIR    OF   KIRKE    WHITE. 

sense.  It  is  usually  the  misfortune  of  genius  to 
invest  ordinary  objects  with  a  meretricious  colour- 
ing, that  perverts  their  forms  and  purposes,  to 
make  its  possessor  imagine  that  it  exempts  him 
from  attending  to  those  strict  rules  of  moral  conduct 
to  which  others  are  bound  to  adhere,  and  to  render 
him  neglectful  of  the  sacred  assurance  that  "  to 
whom  much  is  given  from  him  will  much  be  re- 
quired." Nature,  in  Kirke  White's  case,  appears, 
on  the  contrary,  to  have  determined  that  she  would, 
in  one  instance  at  least,  prove  that  high  intellec- 
tual attainments  are  strictly  compatible  with  every 
social  and  moral  virtue.  At  a  very  early  period 
of  his  life,  religion  became  the  predominant  feeling 
of  his  mind,  and  she  imparted  her  sober  and 
chastened  effects  to  all  his  thoughts  and  actions. 
The  cherished  object  of  every  member  of  his  family, 
he  repaid  their  affection  by  the  most  anxious  solici- 
tude for  their  welfare,  offering  his  advice  on  spiritual 
affairs  with  impressive  earnestness,  and  indicating, 
in  every  letter  of  his  voluminous  correspondence, 
the  greatest  consideration  for  their  feelings  and 
happiness.  For  the  last  six  years  he  deemed  him- 
self marked  out  for  the  service  of  his  Maker,  not 
like  the  member  of  a  convent,  whose  duties  consist 
only  in  prayer,  but  in  the  exercise  of  that  philan- 
thropy and  practical  benevolence  which  ought  to 
adorn  every  parish  priest  To  qualify  himself  pro- 
perly for  the  holy  office,  he  subjected  his  mind  to 
the  severest  discipline ;  and  his  letters  display  a 
D 


1  MEMOIR    OF    KIKKE    WHITE. 

rational  piety,  and  an  enlightened  view  of  religious 
obligations,  that  confer  much  greater  honour  upon 
his  name,  than  his  Poetical  pieces,  whether  as  proofs 
of  talent,  or  of  the  qualities  of  his  heart. 

Such  was  Henry  Kirke  White  as  he  appeared 
to  others ;  but  there  are  minuter  traits  of  charac- 
ter which  no  observer  can  catch,  and  which  the 
possessor  must  himself  delineate.  Though  early 
impressed  with  melancholy,  it  was  not  of  a  mis- 
anthropic nature ;  and  while  despair  and  disappoint- 
ment were  preying  on  his  heart,  he  was  all  sweet- 
ness and  docility  to  others.  A  consciousness  of  the 
possession  of  abilities,  and  of  being  capable  of  better 
things  than  those  which  he  seemed  destined  to  per- 
form, gives  to  some  of  his  productions  the  appear- 
ance of  discontent,  and  of  having  overrated  his 
pretensions.  He  was,  like  many  youthful  poets, 
too  fond  of  complaining  of  fortune,  of  supposing 
himself  neglected,  and  of  comparing  his  humble  lot 
with  those  situations  for  which  he  believed  himself 
qualified;  but  these  were  the  lucubrations  of  his 
earliest  years,  before  he  found  friends  to  foster  his 
talents.  So  far,  indeed,  from  having  reason  to 
lament  the  indifference  of  others  to  his  merits,  his 
life  affords  one  of  the  most  striking  examples  in  the 
history  of  genius,  that  talents  when  united  to  moral 
worth,  will  be  rewarded  i>y  honours  and. fame,  that 
obscure  birth  is  no  impediment  to  advancement,  and 
that  a  person  of  the  humblest  origin  may,  by  his  own 
exertions,  become,  hi  the  great  arena  of  learning,  an 


MEMOIR    OF    KIRKE    WHITE.  li 

object  of  envy  even  to  those  of  the  highest  rank.  It 
is  due  to  him,  whose  good  sense  was  so  remarkable, 
to  point  out  the  time  in  his  career  to  which  the 
passages  in  question  refer ;  and  to  add  that  his 
correspondence,  after  he  entered  the  University, 
expressed  nothing  but  satisfaction  with  his  lot,  and 
a  desire  to  justify  the  kindness  and  expectations  of 
his  patrons.  Still,  Kirke  White  was  unhappy ;  and, 
since  no  other  cause  then  existed  for  his  mental 
wretchedness,  it  must  be  ascribed  to  a  morbid  tem- 
perament, induced  partly  by  ill  health,  and  partly 
by  constitutional  infirmity.  The  uncertainty  of  his 
early  prospects,  and  the  fear  of  ridicule  if  he  ex- 
pressed his  feelings,  rendered  him  reserved,  and 
made  him  confine  his  thoughts  to  his  own  bosom, 
for  he  says, 

"  When  all  was  new,  and  life  was  in  its  spring, 
I  lived  an  unloved  solitary  thing; 
E'en  then  I  learn'd  to  hury  deep  from  day 
The  piercing  cares  that  wore  my  youth  away ; 

and  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Maddock,  in  September, 
1804,  he  thus  spoke  of  himself : 

"Perhaps  it  may  "be  that  I  am  not  formed  for 
friendship,  that  I  expect  more  than  can  ever  be 
found.  Time  will  tutor  me ;  I  am  a  singular  being 
under  a  common  outside  :  I  am  a  profound  dissem- 
bler of  my  inward  feelings,  and  necessity  has  taught 
me  the  art.  I  am  long  before  I  can  unbosom  to  a 
friend,  yet,  I  think,  I  am  sincere  hi  my  friendship : 
you  must  not  attribute  this  to  any  suspiciousness  of 


lii  MEMOIR    OF    KIRKE    WHITE. 

nature,  but  must  consider  that  I  lived  seventeen 
years  my  own  confidant,  my  own  friend,  full  of 
projects  and  strange  thoughts,  and  confiding  them 
to  no  one.  I  am  habitually  reserved,  and  habit- 
ually cautious  in  letting  it  be  seen  that  I  hide  any 
thing." 

None  knew  better  than  himself  that  the  aspira- 
tions and  feelings  of  which  genius  is.  the  parent  are 
often  found  to  be  inconsistent  with  felicity : 

"  Oh!  hear  the  plaint  by  thy  sad  favourite  made, 

His  melancholy  moan, 
He  tells  of  scorn,  he  tells  of  broken  vows, 

Of  sleepless  nights,  of  anguish-ridden  days, 
Pangs  that  his  sensibility  uprouse 

To  curse  his  being  and  his  thirst  for  praise. 
Thou  gavest  to  him  with  treble  force  to  feel 

The  sting  of  keen  neglect,  the  rich  man's  scorn ; 
And  what  o'er  all  does  in  his  soul  preside 

Predominant,  and  tempers  him  to  steel, 
His  high  indignant  pride." 

Nor  was  he  unconscious  that  the  toils  necessary  to 
secure  literary  distinction,  when  endured  by  a  shat- 
tered frame,  are  in  the  highest  degree  severe.  How 
much  truth  and  feeling  are  there  in  the  Lines  which 
he  wrote  after  spending  a  whole  night  in  study,  an 
hour  when  religious  impressions  force  themselves 
with  irresistible  weight  on  the  exhausted  mind  : 

"  Oh !  when  reflecting  on  these  truths  sublime, 
How  insignificant  do  all  the  joys, 
The  gauds,  and  honours  of  the  world  appear ! 
How  vain  ambition !  —  Why  has  my  wakeful  lamp 
Ontwatched the  slow-paced  night?  —  Why  ojj  the  page, 
The  schoolman's  laboured  page,  have  I  employed 


MEMOIR    OF    KIRKE    WHITE.  liii 

The  hours  devoted  by  the  world  to  rest, 
And  needful  to  recruit  exhausted  nature  ? 
Say,  can  the  voice  of  narrow  Fame  repay 
The  loss  of  health  ?  or  can  the  hope  of  glory 
Lend  a  new  throb  unto  my  languid  heart, 
Cool,  even  now,  my  feverish  aching  brow, 
Relume  the  fires  of  this  deep  sunken  eye, 
Or  paint  new  colours  on  this  pallid  cheek  ?  " 

What  a  picture  of  mental  suffering  does  the 
following  passage  present,  and  how  impressive 
does  it  become  when  the  fate  of  the  author  is  re- 
membered : 

"  These  feverish  dews  that  on  my  temples  hang, 
This  quivering  lip,  these  eyes  of  dying  flame; 
These,  the  dread  signs  of  many  a  secret  pang — 
These  are  the  meed  of  him  who  pants  for  Fame!  " 

Like  so  many  other  ardent  students,  the  night  was 
his  favourite  time  for  reading ;  and,  dangerous  as 
the  habit  is  to  health,  what  student  will  not  agree 
in  his  descriptions  of  the  pleasures  that  attend  it  ? 

"  The  night's  my  own,  they  cannot  steal  my  night ! 
When  evening  lights  her  folding  star  on  high, 
I  live  and  breathe ;  and,  in  the  sacred  hours 
Of  quiet  and  repose,  my  spirit  flies, 
Free  as  the  morning,  o'er  the  realms  of  space, 
And  mounts  the  skies,  and  mips  her  wing  for  heaven." 

Kirke  White's  poetry  is  popular,  because  it  de- 
scribes feelings,  passions,  and  associations,  which 
all  have  felt,  and  with  which  all  can  sympathize.  It 
is  by  no  means  rich  in  metaphor,  nor  does  it  evince 
great  powers  of  imagination ;  but  it  is  pathetic, 
plaintive,  and  agreeable ;  and  emanating  directly 


Kv  MEMOIR    OF   KIBKE    WHITE. 

from  his  own  heart,  it  appeals  irresistibly  to  that  of 
his  reader.  His  meaning  is  always  clear,  and  the 
force  and  vigour  of  his  expressions  are  remarkable. 
In  estimating  his  poetical  powers,  however,  it  should 
be  remembered,  that  nearly  all  his  Poems  were 
written  before  he  was  nineteen  ;  and  that  they  are, 
in  truth,  but  the  germs  of  future  excellence,  and 
ought  not  to  be  criticized  as  if  they  were  the  fruits 
of  an  intellect  on  which  time  and  education  had 
bestowed  their  advantages.  It  is,  however,  in  his 
prose  works,  and  especially  in  his  correspondence, 
that  the  versatility  of  his  talents,  his  acquirements, 
his  piety,  and  his  moral  excellence  are  most  con- 
spicuous. 

A  question  arises  with  respect  to  him  which,  in 
the  history  of  a  young  Poet,  is  always  interesting, 
but  which  Mr.  Southey  has  not  touched.  Abun- 
dance of  proof  exists  in  his  writings  of  the  suscep- 
tibility of  his  heart;  but  it  is  not  stated  that  he 
ever  formed  an  attachment.  In  many  of  his  pieces 
he  speaks  with  tenderness  of  a  female  whom  he 
calls  Fanny ;  and  in  one  of  them,  from  which  it  ap- 
pears that  she  was  dead,  he  expresses  his  regard  in 
no  equivocal  manner ;  but  there  are  other  grounds 
for  concluding  that  his  happiness  was  affected  by 
disappointed  affection.  To  his  friend  Mr.  Maddock, 
hi  July,  1804,  he  observed  : 

"I  shall  never,  never  marry.  It  cannot,  must 
not  be.  As  to  affections,  mine  are  already  engaged 
as  much  as  they  ever  will  be,  and  this  is  one  rea- 


MEMOIR    OP   KIBKE    WHITE.  Iv 

son  why  I  believe  my  life  will  be  a  life  of  celibacy. 
I  love  too  ardently  to  make  love  innocent,  and  there- 
fore I  say  farewell  to  it." 

"With  this  passage  one  of  his  Sonnets  singularly 
agrees : 

"  When  I  sit  musing  on  the  checquer'd  past 
(A  term  much  darken'd  with  untimely  woes), 
My  thoughts  revert  to  her,  for  whom  still  flows 
•  The  tear,  though  half  disowned ;  and  binding  fast 

Pride's  stubborn  cheat  to  my  too  yielding  heart, 
I  say  to  her,  she  robb'd  me  of  my  rest, 
•  When  that  was  all  my  wealth.    'T  is  true  my  breast 

Received  from  her  this  wearying,  lingering  smart ; 

Yet,  ah !  I  cannot  bid  her  form  depart; 
Though  wrong' d,  I  love  her  —  yet  in  anger  love, 
For  she  was  most  unworthy.    Then  I  prove 

Vindictive  joy:  and  on  my  stern  front  gleams, 

Throned  in  dark  clouds,  inflexible    .    .    . 

The  native  pride  of  my  much  injured  heart." 

Was  the  subject  of  this  Sonnet  wholly  imaginary, 
or  was  there  some  unfortunate  story  which,  for 
sufficient  reasons,  his  biographers  have  suppressed  ? 
It  is  true,  that  in  his  letters,  written  at  a  much 
later  period,  he  speaks  of  marriage  in  a  manner  not 
to  be  reconciled  with  the  idea  that  he  was  then 
suffering  from  recollections  of  that  description ;  but 
he  may,  in  the  interval  of  two  years,  have  partially 
recovered  from  his  loss. 

Kirke  White  was  buried  in  the  Church  of  All 
Saints,  Cambridge,  but  no  monument  was  erected 
to  him  until  a  liberal  minded  American,  Mr.  Francis 
Boott,  of  Boston,  placed  a  tablet  to  his  memory,  with 


Ivi  MEMOIR    OF   KIRKE    WHITE. 

a  medallion,  by  Chantrey,  with  the  following  inscrip- 
tion, by  Professor  Smyth,  one  of  his  numerous 
friends: 

"  Warmed  with  fond  hope  and  learning's  sacred  flame, 
To  Granta's  bowers  the  youthfiil  Poet  came; 
Unconquered  powers  the  immortal  mind  displayed, 
But  worn  with  anxious  thought,  the  frame  decayed : 
Pale  o'er  his  lamp,  and  in  his  cell  retired, 
The  martyr  student  faded  and  expired. 
Oh !  genius,  taste,  and  piety  sincere,  • 

Too  early  lost  "midst  studies  too  severe ! 
Foremost  to  mourn,  was  generous  Southey  seen, 
He  told  the  tale,  and  showed  what  White  had  been,- 
Nor  told  in  vain.    For  o'er  the  Atlantic  wave 
A  wanderer  came,  and  sought  the  Poet's  grave; 
On  yon  low  stone  he  saw  his  lonely  name, 
And  raised  this  fond  memorial  to  his  fame." 


POEMSt 


CLIFTON    GROVE. 


DEDIGA  TION. 

To  Her  Grace  the  Duchess  of  Devonshire,  the 
following  trifling  effusions  of  a  very  youthful  Muse 
are,  by  permission,  dedicated  by  her  Grace's  much 
obliged  and  grateful  Servant, 

HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 
Nottingham. 


PREFACE. 


THE  following  attempts  in  Verse  are  laid  before 
the  Public  with  extreme  diffidence.  The  Au- 
thor is  very  conscious  that  the  juvenile  efforts  of  a 
youth,  who  has  not  received  the  polish  of  Acade- 
mical discipline,  and  who  has  been  but  sparingly 
blessed  with  opportunities  for  the  prosecution  of 
scholastic  pursuits,  must  necessarily  be  defective 
in  the  accuracy  and  finished  elegance  which  mark 
the  works  of  the  man  who  has  passed  his  life  in 
the  retirement  of  his  study,  furnishing  his  mind 
with  images,  and  at  the  same  time  attaining  the 
power  of  disposing  those  images  to  the  best  ad- 
vantage. 

The  unpremeditated  effusions  of  a  boy,  from  his 
thirteenth  year,  employed,  not  in  the  acquisition 
of  literary  information,  but  in  the  more  active 
business  of  life,  must  not  be  expected  to  exhibit 
any  considerable  portion  of  the  correctness  of  a 
Virgil,  or  the  vigorous  compression  of  a  Horace. 


Ixii  PREFACE. 

Men  are  not,  I  believe,  frequently  known  to  be- 
stow much  labour  on  their  amusements ;  and  these 
poems  were,  most  of  them,  written  merely  to 
beguile  a  leisure  hour,  or  to  fill  up  the  languid 
intervals  of  studies  of  a  severer  nature. 

IIag  TO  oixslov  EQ^OV  ayana.,  "  Every  one  loves 
his  own  work,"  says  the  Stagirite ;  but  it  was  no 
overweening  affection  of  this  kind  which  induced 
this  publication.  Had  the  author  relied  on  his  own 
judgment  .only,  these  Poems  would  not,  in  all  pro- 
bability, ever  have  seen  the  light. 

Perhaps  it  may  be  asked  of  him,  what  are  his 
motives  for  this  publication  ?  He  answers  —  simply 
these,:  the  facilitation,  through  its  means,  of  those 
studies  which,  from  his  earliest  infancy,  have  been 
the  principal  objects  of  his  ambition ;  and  the 
increase  of  the  capacity  to  pursue  those  inclinations 
which  may  one  day  place  him  in  an  honourable 
station  in  the  scale  of  society. 

The  principal  Poem  in  this  little  collection  (Clif- 
ton Grove)  is,  he  fears,  deficient  in  numbers  and 
harmonious  coherency  of  parts.  It  is,  however, 
merely  to  be  regarded  as  a  description  of  a  noctur- 
nal ramble  in  that  charming  retreat,  accompanied 
with  such  reflections  as  the  scene  naturally  sug- 


PREFACE.  Ixiii 

gested.  It  was  written  twelve  months  ago,  when 
the  Author  was  in  his  sixteenth  year :  —  the  Mis- 
cellanies are  some  of  them  the  productions  of  a  very 
early  age.  —  Of  the  Odes,  that  "  To  an  early  Prim- 
rose" was  written  at  thirteen  —  the  others  are  of  a 
later  date.  —  The  Sonnets  are  chiefly  irregular; 
they  have,  perhaps,  no  other  claim  to  that  specific 
denomination,  than  that  they  consist  only  of  four- 
teen lines. 

Such  are  the  Poems  towards  which  I  entreat 
the  lenity  of  the  Public.  The  Critic  will  doubtless 
find  in  them  much  to  condemn ;  he  may  likewise 
possibly  discover  something  to  commend.  Let  -him 
scan  my  faults  with  an  indulgent  eye,  and  in  the 
work  of  that  correction  which  I  invite,  let  him 
remember  he  is  holding  the  iron  mace  of  Criticism 
over  the  flimsy  superstructure  of  a  youth  of  seven- 
teen ;  and,  remembering  that,  may  he  forbear  from 
crushing,  by  too  much  rigour,  the  painted  butterfly 
whose  transient  colours  may  otherwise  be  capable  of 
affording  a  moment's  innocent  amusement. 

H.  K.  WHITE. 

Nottingham. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


CLIFTON   GROVE. 


Lo  !  in  the  west,  fast  fades  the  lingering  light, 
And  day's  last  vestige  takes  its  silent  flight. 
No  more  is  heard  the  woodman's  measured  stroke, 
Which  with  the  dawn  from  yonder  dingle  broke ; 
No  more,  hoarse  clamouring  o'er  the  uplifted  head, 
The  c*rows  assembling  seek  their  wind-rocked  bed  ; 
Still'd  is  the  village  hum  —  the  woodland  sounds 
Have  ceased  to  echo  o'er  the  dewy  grounds, 
And  general  silence  reigns,  save  when  below 
The  murmuring  Trent  is  scarcely  heard  to  flow  ; 
And  save  when,  swung  by  'nighted  rustic  late, 
Oft,  on  its  hinge,  rebounds  the  jarring  gate  ; 
Or  when  the  sheep-bell,  in  the  distant  vale, 
1 


2  THE   POEMS    OF 

Breathes  its  wild  music  on  the  downy  gale. 

Now,  when  the  rustic  wears  the  social  smile, 

Released  from  day  and  its  attendant  toil, 

And  draws  his  household  round  their  evening  fire, 

And  tells  the  ofttold  tales  that  never  tire  ; 

Or,  where  the  town's  blue  turrets  dimly  rise, 

And  manufacture  taints  the  ambient  skies, 

The  pale  mechanic  leaves  the  labouring  loom, 

The  air-pent  hold,  the  pestilential  room, 

And  rushes  out,  impatient  to  begin 

The  stated  course  of  customary  sin  : 

Now,  now  my  solitary  way  I  bend 

Where  solemn  groves  in  awful  state  impend, 

And  cliffs,  that  boldly  rise  above  the  plain, 

Bespeak,   blest    Clifton  !  thy  sublime  domain. 

Here  lonely  wandering  o'er  the  sylvan  bower, 

I  come  to  pass  the  meditative  hour  ; 

To  bid  awhile  the  strife  of  passion  cease, 

And  woo  the  calms  of  solitude  and  peace. 

And  oh !  thou  sacred  Power,  who  rear'st  on  high 

Thy  leafy  throne  where  wavy  poplars  sigh  ! 

Genius  of  woodland  shades !  whose  mild  control 

Steals  with  resistless  witchery  to  the  soul, 

Come  with  thy  wonted  ardour,  and  inspire 

My  glowing  bosom  with  thy  hallowed  lire. 

And  thou,  too,  Fancy,  from  thy  starry  sphere, 

Where  to  the  hymning  orbs  thou  lend'st  thine  ear, 

Do  thou  descend,  and  bless  my  ravished  sight, 

Veil'd  in  soft  visions  of  serene  delight. 

At  thy  command  the  gale  that  passes  by 


KIRKE    WHITE.  3 

Bears  in  its  whispers  mystic  harmony. 

Thou  wavest  thy  wand,  and  lo !  what  forms  appear ! 

On  the  dark  cloud  what  giant  shapes  career ! 

The  ghosts  of  Ossian  skim  the  misty  vale, 

And  hosts  of  sylphids  on  the  moonbeams  sail. 

This  gloomy  alcove  daz-kling  to  the  sight, 

Where  meeting  trees  create  eternal  night ; 

Save,  when  from  yonder  stream  the  sunny  ray, 

Reflected,  gives  a  dubious  gleam  of  day ; 

Recalls,  endearing  to  my  altered  mind, 

Times,  when  beneath  the  boxen  hedge  reclined, 

I  watched  the  lapwing  to  her  clamorous  brood ; 

Or  lured  the  robin  to  its  scattered  food ; 

Or  woke  with  song  the  woodland  echo  wild, 

And  at  each  gay  response  delighted  smiled. 

How  oft,  when  childhood  threw  its  golden  ray 

Of  gay  romance  o'er  every  happy  day, 

Here,  would  I  run,  a  visionary  boy, 

When  the  hoarse  tempest  shook  the  vaulted  sky, 

And,  fancy-led,  beheld  the  Almighty's  form 

Sternly  careering  on  the  eddying  storm ; 

And  heard,  while  awe  congeal'd  my  inmost  soul, 

His  voice  terrific  in  the  thunders  roll. 

With  secret  joy  I  viewed  with  vivid  glare 

The  vollied  lightnings  cleave  the  sullen  air ; 

And,  as  the  warring  winds  around  reviled, 

With  awful  pleasure  big, —  I  heard  and  smiled. 

Beloved  remembrance !  —  Memory  which  endears 

This  silent  spot  to  my  advancing  years ! 

Here  dwells  eternal  peace,  eternal  rest, 


4  THE   POEMS    OF 

In  shades  like  these  to  live  is  to  be  blessed. 

While  happiness  evades  the  busy  crowd, 

In  rural  coverts  loves  the  maid  to  shroud. 

And  thou  too,  Inspiration,  whose  wild  flame 

Shoots  with  electric  swiftness  through  the  frame, 

Thou  here  dost  love  to  sit  with  upturned  eye, 

And  listen  to  the  stream  that  murmurs  by, 

The  woods  that  wave,  the  gray  owl's  silken  flight, 

The  mellow  music  of  the  listening  night. 

Congenial  calms  more  welcome  to  my  breast 

Than  maddening  joy  in  dazzling  lustre  dressed, 

To  Heaven  my  prayers,  my  daily  prayers  I  raise, 

That  ye  may  bless  my  unambitious  days, 

Withdrawn,  remote,  from  all  the  haunts  of  strife, 

May  trace  with  me  the  lowly  vale  of  life, 

And  when  her  banner  Death  shall  o'er  me  wave. 

May  keep  your  peaceful  vigils  on  my  grave. 

Now  as  I  rove,  where  wide  the  prospect  grows, 

A  livelier  light  upon  my  vision  flows. 

No  more  above  the  embracing  branches  meet, 

No  more  the  river  gurgles  at  my  feet, 

But  seen  deep  down  the  cliff's  impending  side, 

Through  hanging  woods,  now  gleams  its  silver  tide. 

Dim  is  my  upland  path,  —  across  the  green 

Fantastic  shadows  fling,  yet  oft  between 

The  cheqner'd  glooms  the  moon  her  chaste  ray  sheds. 

Where  knots  of  bluebells  droop  their  graceful  heads, 

And  beds  of  violets,  blooming  'mid  the  trees, 

Load  with  waste  fragrance  the  nocturnal  breeze. 


KIEKE    WHITE.  O 

Say,  why  does  Man,  while  to  his  opening  sight 
Each  shrub  presents  a  source  of  chaste  delight, 
And  Nature  bids  for  him  her  treasures  flow, 
And  gives  to  him  alone  his  bliss  to  know, — 
Why  does  he  pant  for  Vice's  deadly  charms  ? 
Why  clasp  the  siren  Pleasure  to  his  arms  ? 
And  suck  deep  draughts  of  her  voluptuous  breath, 
Though  fraught  with  ruin,  infamy,  and  death? 
Could  he  who  thus  to  vile  enjoyment  clings 
Know  what  calm  joy  from  purer  sources  springs ; 
Could  he  but  feel  how  sweet,  how  free  from  strife. 
The  harmless  pleasures  of  a  harmless  life, 
No  more  his  soul  would  pant  for  joys  impure, 
The  deadly  chalice  would  no  more  allure, 
But  the  sweet  potion  he  was  wont  to  sip 
Would  turn  to  poison  on  his  conscious  lip. 

Fair  Nature !  thee,  in  all  thy  varied  charms, 
Fain  would  I  clasp  for  ever  in  my  arms ! 
Thine  are  the  sweets  which  never,  never  sate, 
Thine  still  remain  through  all  the  storms  of  fate. 
Though  not  for  me,  't  was  Heaven's  divine  command 
To  roll  in  acres  of  paternal  land, 
Yet  still  my  lot  is  blest,  while  I  enjoy 
Thine  opening  beauties  with  a  lover's  eye. 

Happy  is  he,  who,  though  the  cup  of  bliss 
Has  ever  shunned  him  when  he  thought  to  kiss, 
Who,  still  in  abject  poverty  or  pain, 
Can  count  with  pleasure  what  small  joys  remain : 


6  THE    POEMS    OP 

Though  were  his  sight  conveyed  from  zone  to  zone, 
He  would  not  find  one  spot  of  ground  his  own, 
Yet  as  he  looks  around,  he  cries  with  glee, 
These  bounding  prospects  all  were  made  for  me : 
For  me  yon  waving  fields  their  burden  bear, 
For  me  yon  labourer  guides  the  shining  share, 
While  happy  I  in  idle  ease  recline, 
And  mark  the  glorious  visions  as  they  shine. 
This  is  the  charm,  by  sages  often  told, 
Converting  all  it  touches  into  gold. 
Content  can  soothe  where'er  by  fortune  placed, 
Can  rear  a  garden  in  the  desert  waste. 

How  lovely,  from  this  hill's  superior  height, 
Spreads  the  wide  view  before  my  straining  sight ! 
O'er  many  a  varied  mile  of  lengthening  ground, 
E'en  to  the  blue-ridged  hill's  remotest  bound, 
My  ken  is  borne ;  while  o'er  my  head  serene 
The  silver  moon  illumes  the  misty  scene, 
Now  shining  clear,  now  darkening  in  the  glade, 
In  all  the  soft  varieties  of  shade. 

Behind  me,  lo !  the  peaceful  hamlet  lies, 
The  drowsy  god  has  sealed  the  cotter's  eyes. 
No  more,  where  late  the  social  faggot  blazed, 
The  vacant  peal  resounds,  by  little  raised ; 
But  locked  in  silence,  o'er  Arion's  *  fetar 
The  slumbering  Night  rolls  on  her  velvet  car : 

*  The  constellation  Delphinus.    For  authority  for  this  appel- 
lation, see  Ovid's  Fasti,  lib.  ii.  1.  83. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  7 

The  church  bell  tolls,  deep  sounding  down  the  glade, 

The  solemn  hour  for  walking  spectres  made ; 

The  simple  ploughboy,  wakening  with  the  sound, 

Listens  aghast,  and  turns  him  startled  round, 

Then  stops  his  ears,  and  strives  to  close  his  eyes, 

Lest  at  the  sound  some  grisly  ghost  should  rise. 

Now  ceased  the  long,  the  monitory  toll, 

Returning  silence  stagnates  in  the  soul ; 

Save  when,  disturbed  by  dreams,  with  wild  affright, 

The  deep-mouthed  mastiff  bays  the  troubled  night ; 

Or  where  the  village  alehouse  crowns  the  vale, 

The  creaking  signpost  whistles  to  the  gale. 

A  little  onward  let  me  bend  my  way, 

Where  the  moss'd  seat  invites  the  traveller's  stay. 

That  spot,  oh !  yet  it  is  the  very  same ; 

That  hawthorn  gives  it  shade,  and  gave  it  name : 

There  yet  the  primrose  opes  its  earliest  bloom, 

There  yet  the  violet  sheds  its  first  perfume, 

And  in  the  branch  that  rears  above  the  rest 

The  robin  unmolested  builds  its  nest. 

'Twas  here,  when  hope,  presiding  o'er  my  breast, 

In  vivid  colours  every  prospect  dressed  : 

'Twas  here,  reclining,  I  indulged  her  dreams, 

And  lost  the  hour  in  visionary  schemes. 

Here,  as  I  press  once  more  the  ancient  seat, 

Why,  bland  deceiver !  not  renew  the  cheat ! 

Say,  can  a  few  short  years  this  change  achieve, 

That  thy  illusions  can  no  more  deceive ! 

Time's  sombrous  tints  have  every  view  o'erspread, 

And  thou  too,  gay  seducer,  art  thou  fled  ? 


8  THE    POEMS    OF 

Though  vain  thy  promise,  and  the  suit  severe, 
Yet  thou  couldst  guile  Misfortune  of  her  tear, 
And  oft  thy  smiles  across  life's  gloomy  way 
Could  throw  a  gleam  of  transitory  day. 
How  gay,  in  youth,  the  flattering  future  seems ; 
How  sweet  is  manhood  in  the  infant's  dreams  ; 
The  dire  mistake  too  soon  is  brought  to  light, 
And  all  is  buried  in  redoubled  night. 
Yet  some  can  rise  superior  to  the  pain, 
And  in  their  breasts  the  charmer  Hope  retain ; 
While  others,  dead  to  feeling,  can  survey, 
Unmoved,  their  fairest  prospects  fade  away  : 
But  yet  a  few  there  be,  —  too  soon  o'ercast ! 
Who  shrink  unhappy  from  the  adverse  blast, 
And  woo  the  first  bright  gleam,  which  breaks  the 

gloom, 

To  gild  the  silent  slumbers  of  the  tomb. 
So  in  these  shades  the  early  primrose  blows, 
Too  soon  deceived  by  suns  and  melting  snows  : 
So  falls  untimely  on  the  desert  waste, 
Its  blossoms  withering  in  the  northern  blast. 

Now  passed  whate'er  the  upland  heights  display, 
Down  the  steep  cliff  I  wind  my  devious  way ; 
Oft  rousing,  as  the  rustling  path  I  beat, 
The  timid  hare  from  its  accustomed  seat. 
And  oh !  how  sweet  this  walk  o'erhung  with  wood, 
That  winds  the  margin  of  the  solemn  flood ! 
What  rural  objects  steal  upon  the  sight ! 
What  rising  views  prolong  the  calm  delight ! 


KIRKE    WHITE.  9 

The  brooklet  branching  from  the  silver  Trent, 
The  whispering  birch  by  every  zephyr  bent, 
The  woody  island,  and  the  naked  mead, 
The  lowly  hut  half  hid  hi  groves  of  reed, 
The  rural  wicket,  and  the  rural  stile, 
And  frequent  interspersed,  the  woodman's  pile. 
Above,  below,  where'er  I  turn  my  eyes, 
Rocks,  waters,  woods,  in  grand  succession  rise. 
High  up  the  cliff  the  -varied  groves  ascend, 
And  mournful  larches  o'er  the  wave  impend. 
Around,  what  sounds,  what  magic  sounds  arise, 
What  glimmering  scenes  salute  my  ravish'd  eyes ! 
Soft  sleep  the  waters  on  their  pebbly  bed, 
The  woods  wave  gently  o'er  my  drooping  head, 
And,  swelling  slow,  comes  wafted  on  the  wind, 
Lorn  Progne's  note  from  distant  copse  behind. 
Still  every  rising  sound  of  calm  delight 
Stamps  but  the  fearful  silence  of  the  night, 
Save  when  is  heard  between  each  dreary  rest, 
Discordant  from  her  solitary  nest, 
The  owl,  dull  screaming  to  the  wandering  moon ; 
Now  riding,  cloud-wrapped,  near  her  highest  noon : 
Or  when  the  wild  duck,  southering,  hither  rides, 
And  plunges  sullen  in  the  sounding  tides. 

How  oft,  in  this  sequestered  spot,  when  youth 
Gave  to  each  tale  the  holy  force  of  truth, 
Have  I  long  lingered,  while  the  milkmaid  sung 
The  tragic  legend,  till  the  woodland  rung ! 
That  tale,  so  sad !  which,  still  to  memory  dear, 


10  THE    POEMS    OF 

From  its  sweet  source  can  call  the  sacred  tear, 

And  (lulled  to  rest  stern  Reason's  harsh  control) 

Steal  its  soft  magic  to  the  passive  soul.  [wind, 

These  hallowed  shades,  —  these  trees  that  woo  the 

Recall  its  faintest  features  to  my  mind. 

A  hundred  passing  years,  with  march  sublime, 

Have  swept  beneath  the  silent  whig  of  tune, 

Since,  in  yon  hamlet's  solitary  shade, 

Reclusely  dwelt  the  far  famed  Clifton  Maid, 

The  beauteous  Margaret ;  for  her  each  swain 

Confess'd  in  private  his  peculiar  pain, 

In  secret  sighed,  a  victim  to  despair, 

Nor  dared  to  hope  to  win  the  peerless  fair. 

No  more  the  Shepherd  on  the  blooming  mead 

Attuned  to  gaiety  his  artless  reed, 

No  more  entwined  the  pansied  wreath,  to  deck  v 

His  favourite  wether's  unpolluted  neck, 

But  listless,  by  yon  bubbling  stream  reclined, 

He  mixed  his  sobbings  with  the  passing  wind, 

Bemoaned  his  hapless  love ;  or,  boldly  bent, 

Far  from  these  smiling  fields  a  rover  went, 

O'er  distant  lands,  in  search  of  ease,  to  roam, 

A  self-willed  exile  from  his  native  home. 

Yet  not  to  all  the  maid  expressed  disdain ; 
Her  Bateman  loved,  nor  loved  the  youth  in  vain. 
Full  oft,  low  whispering  o'er  these  arching  boughs, 
The  echoing  vault  responded  to  their  vows, 
As  here  deep  hidden  from  the  glare  of  day, 
Enamoured  oft,  they  took  their  secret  way. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  11 

Yon  bosky  dingle,  still  the  rustics  name  ; 
'T  was  there  the  blushing  maid  confessed  her  flame. 
Down  yon  green  lane  they  oft  were  seen  to  hie, 
When  evening  slumbered  on  the  western  sky. 
That  blasted  yew,  that  mouldering  walnut  bare, 
Each  bears  mementos  of  the  fated  pair. 

One  eve,  when  Autumn  loaded  every  breeze 
With  the  fallen  honours  of  the  mourning  trees. 
The  maiden  waited  at  the  accustomed  bower, 
And  waited  long  beyond  the  appointed  hour, 
Yet  Bateman  came  not ;  —  o'er  the  woodland  drear, 
Howling  portentous  did  the  winds  career  ; 
And  bleak  and  dismal  on  the  leafless  woods 
The  fitful  rains  rushed  down  in  sullen  floods ; 
The  night  was  dark ;  as,  now  and  then,  the  gale 
Paused  for  a  moment  —  Margaret  listened  pale ; 
But  through  the  covert  to  her  anxious  ear 
No  rustling  footstep  spoke  her  lover  near.         [why, 
Strange  fears  now  filled  her  breast,  —  she  knew  not 
She  sighed,  and  Bateman's  name  was  in  each  sigh. 
She  hears  a  noise,  —  'tis  he,  —  he  comes  at  last, — 
Alas  !  't  was  but  the  gale  which  hurried  past : 
But  now  she  hears  a  quickening  footstep  sound, 
Lightly  it  comes,  and  nearer  does  it  bound ; 
'T  is  Bateman's  self,  —  he  springs  into  her  arms, 
'T  ia  he  that  clasps,  and  chides  her  vain  alarms. 
"  Yet  why  this  silence  ?  —  I  have  waited  long, 
And  the  cold  storm  has  yelled  the  trees  among. 


12  THE   POEMS    OF 

And  now  thou'rt  here  my  fears  are  fled — yet  speak, 
Why  does  the  salt  tear  moisten  on  thy  cheek  ? 
Say,  what  is  wrong  ?  "    Now  through  a  parting  cloud 
The  pale  moon  peered  from  her  tempestuous  shroud, 
And  Bateman's  face  was  seen  ;  't  was  deadly  white, 
And  sorrow  seem'd  to  sicken  in  his  sight. 
"  Oh,  speak  !  my  love ! "  again  the  maid  conjured, 
"  Why  is  thy  heart  in  sullen  woe  immured  ?  " 
He  raised  his  head,  and  thrice  essay'd  to  tell, 
Thrice  from  his  lips  the  unfinished  accents  fell ; 
When  thus  at  last  reluctantly  he  broke 
His  boding  silence,  and  the  maid  bespoke : 
"  Grieve  not,  my  love,  but  ere  the  morn  advance 
I  on  these  fields  must  cast  my  parting  glance ; 
For  three  long  years,  by  cruel  fate's  command, 
I  go  to  languish  in  a  foreign  land. 
Oh,  Margaret !  omens  dire  have  met  my  view, 
Say,  when  far  distant,  wilt  thou  bear  me  true  ? 
Should  honours  tempt  thee,  and  should  riches  fee, 
Wouldst  thou  forget  thine  ardent  vows  to  me, 
And  on  the  silken  couch  of  wealth  reclined, 
Banish  thy  faithful  Bateman  from  thy  mind  ?  " 

"  Oh !  why,"  replies  the  maid,  "my  faith  thus  prove, 
Canst  thou !  ah,  canst  thou,  then  suspect  my  love  ? 
Hear  me,  just  God !  if  from  my  traitorous  heart 
My  Bateman's  fond  remembrance  e'er  shall  part, 
If,  when  he  hail  again  his  native  shore, 
He  finds  his  Margaret  true  to  Turn  no  more, 


KIRKE    WHITE.  13 

May  fiends  of  hell,  and  every  power  of  dread, 
Conjoin'd  then  drag  me  from  my  perjured  bed, 
And  hurl  me  headlong  down  these  awful  steeps, 
To  find  deserved  death  in  yonder  deeps  1 "  * 
•Thus  spake  the  maid,  and  from  her  finger  drew 
A  golden  ring,  and  broke  it  quick  in  two ; 
One  half  she  in  her  lovely  bosom  hides, 
The  other,  trembling,  to  her  love  confides. 
"  This  bind  the  vow,"  she  said,  "  this  mystic  charm 
No  future  recantation  can  disarm, 
The  right  vindictive  does  the  fates  involve, 
No  tears  can  move  it,  no  regrets  dissolve." 

She  ceased.     The  death-bird  gave  a  dismal  cry, 
The  river  moaned,  the  wild  gale  whistled  by, 
And  once  again  the  lady  of  the  night 
Behind  a  heavy  cloud  withdrew  her  light. 
Trembling  she  viewed  these  portents  with  dismay ; 
But  gently  Bateman  kissed  her  fears  away : 
Yet  still  he  felt  concealed  a  secret  smart, 
Still  melancholy  bodings  filled  his  heart. 

When  to  the  distant  land  the  youth  was  sped, 

A  lonely  life  the  moody  maiden  led.  [walk, 

Still  would  she  trace  each  dear,  each  well  known 

Still  by  the  moonlight  to  her  love  would  talk, 

And  fancy,  as  she  paced  among  the  trees, 

She  heard  his  whispers  in  the  dying  breeze. 

*  This  part  of  the  Trent  ia  commonly  called  "  The  Clifton 
Deeps." 


14  THE   POEMS    OF 

Thus  two  years  glided  on  in  silent  grief; 

The  third  her  bosom  owned  the  kind  relief: 

Absence  had  cooled  her  love — the  impoverished  flame 

"Was  dwindling  fast,  when  lo !  the  tempter  came ; 

He  offered  wealth,  and  all  the  joys  of  life, 

And  the  weak  maid  became  another's  wife  ! 

Six  guilty  months  had  marked  the  false  one's  crime, 

When  Bateman  hailed  once  more  his  native  clime. 

Sure  of  her  constancy,  elate  he  came, 

The  lovely  partner  of  his  soul  to  claim  ; 

Light  was  his  heart,  as  up  the  well  known  way 

He  bent  his  steps  —  and  all  his  thoughts  were  gay. 

Oh !  who  can  paint  his  agonizing  throes, 

When  on  his  ear  the  fatal  news  arose ! 

Chilled  with  amazement,  —  senseless  with  the  blow, 

He  stood  a  marble  monument  of  woe ; 

Till  called  to  all  the  horrors  of  despair, 

He  smote  his  brow,  and  tore  his  horrent  hair ; 

Then  rushed  impetuous  from  the  dreadful  spot, 

And  sought  those  scenes  (by  memory  ne'er  forgot), 

Those  scenes,  the  witness  of  their  growing  flame, 

And  now  like  witnesses  of  Margaret's  shame. 

'T  was  night — he  sought  the  river's  lonely  shore, 

And  traced  again  their  former  wanderings  o'er. 

Now  on  the  bank  in  silent  grief  he  stood, 

And  gazed  intently  on  the  stealing  flood, 

Death  in  his  mien  and  madness  in  his  eye, 

He  watch'd  the  waters  as  they  murmured  by ; 

Bade  the  base  murderess  triumph  o'er  his  grave  — 

Prepared  to  plunge  into  the  whelming  wave. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  15 

Yet  still  he  stood  irresolutely  bent ; 
Religion  sternly  stayed  his  rash  intent. 
He  knelt.  —  Cool  played  upon  his  cheek  the  wind, 
And  fanned  the  fever  of  his  maddening  mind, 
The  willows  waved,  the  stream  it  sweetly  swept, 
The  paly  moonbeam  on  its  surface  slept, 
And  all  was  peace ;  —  he  felt  the  general  calm 
O'er  his  racked  bosom  shed  a  genial  balm : 
When  casting  far  behind  his  streaming  eye, 
He  saw  the  Grove,  —  in  fancy  saw  her  lie, 
His  Margaret,  lulled  in  Germain's  *  arms  to  rest. 
And  all  the  demon  rose  within  his  breast. 
Convulsive  now,  he  clenched  his  trembling  hand, 
Cast  his  dark  eye  once  more  upon  the  land, 
Then,  at  one  spring  he  spurned  the  yielding  bank, 
And  in  the  calm  deceitful  current  sank. 

Sad,  on  the  solitude  of  night,  the  sound, 

As  in  the  stream  he  plunged,  was  heard  around : 

Then  all  was  still  —  the  wave  was  rough  no  more, 

The  river  swept  as  sweetly  as  before  ; 

The  willows  waved,  the  moonbeams  shone  serene, 

And  peace  returning  brooded  o'er  the  scene. 

Now,  see  upon  the  perjured  fair  one  hang 
Remorse's  glooms  and  never  ceasing  pang. 
Full  well  she  knew,  repentant  now  too  late, 
She  soon  must  bow  beneath  the  stroke  of  fate. 
But,  for  the  babe  she  bore  beneath  her  breast, 
*  Germain  is  the  traditionary  name  of  her  husband. 


16  THK    POEMS    OF 

The  offended  God  prolonged  her  life  unble.st. 

But  fast  the  fleeting  moments  rolled  away, 

And  near  and  nearer  drew  the  dreaded  day ; 

That  day  foredoomed  to  give  her  child  the  light, 

And  hurl  its  mother  to  the  shades  of  night. 

The  hour  arrived,  and  from  the  wretched  wife 

The  guiltless  baby  struggled  into  life.  — 

As  night  drew  on,  around  her  bed  a  band 

Of  friends  and  kindred  kindly  took  their  stand ; 

In  holy  prayer  they  pass'd  the  creeping  time, 

Intent  to  expiate  her  awful  crime. 

Their  prayers  were  fruitless.  —  As  the  midnight  came 

A  heavy  sleep  oppressed  each  weary  frame. 

In  vain  they  strove  against  the  o'erwhelming  load, 

Some  power  unseen  their  drowsy  lids  bestrode. 

They  slept  till  in  the  blushing  eastern  sky 

The  blooming  Morning  oped  her  dewy  eye ; 

Then  wakening  wide  they  sought  the  ravished  bed, 

But  lo !  the  hapless  Margaret  was  fled ; 

And  never  more  the  weeping  train  were  doomed 

To  view  the  false  one,  in  the  deeps  intombed. 

The  neighbouring  rustics  told  that  in  the  night 
They  heard  such  screams  as  froze  them  with  affright ; 
And  many  an  infant,  at  its  mother's  breast. 
Started  dismayed,  from  its  unthinking  rest. 
And  even  now,  upon  the  heath  forlorn, 
They  show  the  path  down  which  the  fair  was  borne, 
By  the  fell  demons,  to  the  yawning  wave, 
Her  own,  and  murdered  lover's,  mutual  grave. 


KffiKE    WHITE.  17 

Such  is  the  tale,  so  sad,  to  memory  dear, 

Which  oft  in  youth  has  charmed  my  listening  ear, 

That  tale,  which  bade  me  find  redoubled  sweets 

In  the  drear  silence  of  these  dark  retreats ; 

And  even  now,  with  melancholy  power, 

Adds  a- new  pleasure  to  the  lonely  hour. 

'Mid  all  the  charms  by  magic  Nature  given 

To  this  wild  spot,  this  sublunary  heaven, 

With  double  joy  enthusiast  Fancy  leans 

On  the  attendant  legend  of  the  scenes. 

This  sheds  a  fairy  lustre  on  the  floods, 

And  breathes  a  mellower  gloom  upon  the  woods ; 

This,  as  the  distant  cataract  swells  around, 

Gives  a  romantic  cadence  to  the  sound ; 

This,  and  the  deepening  glen,  the  alley  green, 

The  silver  stream,  with  'sedgy  tufts  between, 

The  massy  rock,  the  wood-encompassed  leas, 

The  broom-clad  islands,  and  the  nodding  trees, 

The  lengthening  vista,  and  the  present  gloom, 

The  verdant  pathway  breathing  waste  perfume : 

These  are  thy  charms,  the  joys  which  these  impart 

Bind  thee,  bless'd  Clifton !  close  around  my  heart. 

Dear  Native  Grove !  where'er  my  devious  track, 
To  thee  will  Memory  lead  the  wanderer  back. 
Whether  in  Arno's  polished  vales  I  stray, 
Or  where  "  Oswego's  swamps  "  obstruct  the  day ; 
Or  wander  lone,  where,  wildering  and  wide, 
The  tumbling  torrent  laves  St.  Gothard's  side ; 
2 


18  THE   POEMS    OF 

Or  by  old  Tejo's  classic  margent  muse, 
Or  stand  entranced  with  Pyrenean  views ; 
Still,  still  to  thee,  where'er  my  footsteps  roam, 
My  heart  shall  point,  and  lead  the  wanderer  home. 
When  Splendour  offers,  and  when  Fame  incites, 
I  '11  pause,  and  think  of  all  thy  dear  delights, 
Reject  the  boon,  and,  wearied  with  the  change, 
Renounce  the  wish  which  first  induced  to  range ; 
Turn  to  these  scenes,  these  well  known  scenes  once 

more, 

Trace  once  again  old  Trent's  romantic  shore, 
And  tired  with  worlds,  and  all  their  busy  ways, 
Here  waste  the  little  remnant  of  my  days. 
But  if  the  Fates  should  this  last  wish  deny, 
And  doom  me  on  some  foreign  shore  to  die ; 
Oh !  should  it  please  the  world's  supernal  King, 
That  weltering  waves  my  funeral  dirge  shall  sing ; 
Or  that  my  corse  should,  on  some  desert  strand, 
Lie  stretched  beneath  the  Simoom's  blasting  hand ; 
Still,  though  unwept  I  find  a  stranger  tomb, 
My  sprite  shall  wander  through  this  favourite  gloom, 
Ride  on  the  wind  that  sweeps  the  leafless  grove, 
Sigh  on  the  wood-blast  of  the  dark  alcove, 
Sit  a  lorn  spectre  on  yon  well  known  grave, 
And  mix  its  meanings  with  the  desert  wave. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  19 


TIME. 


GENIUS  of  musings,  who,  the  midnight  hour 

Wasting  in  woods  or  haunted  forests  wild, 

Dost  watch  Orion  in  his  arctic  tower, 

Th y  dark  eye  fixed  as  in  some  holy  trance ; 

Or  when  the  vollied  lightnings  cleave  the  air, 

And  Ruin  gaunt  bestrides  the  winged  storm, 

Sitt'st  in  some  lonely  watchtower,  where  thy  lamp, 

Faint  blazing,  strikes  the  fisher's  eye  from  far, 

And,  'mid  the  howl  of  elements,  unmoved, 

Dost  ponder  on  the  awful  scene,  and  trace 

The  vast  effect  to  its  superior  source,  — 

Spirit,  attend  my  lowly  benison ! 

For  now  I  strike  to  themes  of  import  high 

The  solitary  lyre ;  and,  borne  by  thee 

Above  this  narrow  cell,  I  celebrate 

The  mysteries  of  Tune ! 

Him  who,  august, 

Was  ere  these  worlds  were  fashioned, —  ere  the  sun 
Sp*rang  from  the  east,  or  Lucifer  displayed 
His  glowing  cresset  in  the  arch  of  morn, 
Or  Vesper  gilded  the  serener  eve. 

*  This  Poem  was  begun  either  during  the  publication  of 
Clifton  Grove,  or  shortly  afterwards,  but  never  completed: 
some  of  the  detached  parts  were  among  his  latest  productions. 


20  THE    POEMS    OF 

Yea,  He  had  been  for  an  eternity  I 

Had  swept  unvarying  from  eternity 

The  harp  of  desolation  —  ere  his  tonesr 

At  God's  command,  assumed  a  milder  strain, 

And  startled  on  his  watch,  in  the  vast  deep, 

Chaos's  sluggish  sentry,  and  evoked 

From  the  dark  void  the  smiling  universe. 

Chained  to  the  grovelling  frailties  of  the  flesh, 

Mere  mortal  man,  unpurged  from  earthly  dross, 

Cannot  survey,  with  fixed  and  steady  eye, 

The  dim  uncertain  gulf,  which  now  the  muse, 

Adventurous,  would  explore ;  but  dizzy  grown,. 

He  topples  down  the  abyss.  —  If  he  would  scan 

The  fearful  chasm,  and  catch  a  transient  glimpse 

Of  its  unfathomable  depths,  that  so 

His  mind  may  turn  with  double  joy  to  GodT 

His  only  certainty  and  resting  place  ; 

He  must  put  off  awhile  this  mortal  vest, 

And  learn  to  follow,  without  giddiness, 

To  heights  where  all  is  vision,  and  surprise, 

And  vague  conjecture.  —  He  must  waste  by  night 

The  studious  taper,  far  from  all  resort 

Of  crowds  and  folly,  in  some  still  retreat ;  4 

High  on  the  beetling  promontory's  crest, 

Or  in  the  caves  of  the  vast  wilderness, 

Where,  compassed  round  with  Nature's  wildest  shapes, 

He  may  be  driven  to  centre  all  his  thoughts 

In  the  great  Architect,  who  lives  confessed 

In  rocks,  and  seas,  and  solitary  wastes. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  21 

So  has  divine  Philosophy,  with  voice 

Mild  as  the  murmurs  of  the  moonlight  wave, 

Tutored  the  heart  of  him,  who  now  awakes, 

Touching  the  chords  of  solemn  minstrelsy, 

His  faint,  neglected  song  —  intent  to  snatch 

Some  vagrant  blossom  from  the  dangerous  steep 

Of  poesy,  a  bloom  of  such  a  hue, 

So  sober,  as  may  not  unseemly  suit 

With  Truth's  severer  brow  ;  and  one  withal 

So  hardy  as  shall  brave  the  passing  wind 

Of  many  winters,  —  rearing  its  meek  head     • 

In  loveliness,  when  he  who  gathered  it 

Is  numbered  with  the  generations  gone. 

Yet  not  to  me  hath  God's  good  providence 

Given  studious  leisure,*  or  unbroken  thought, 

Such  as  he  owns,  —  a  meditative  man ; 

Who  from  the  blush  of  morn  to  quiet  eve 

Ponders,  or  turns  the  page  of  wisdom  o'er, 

Far  from  the  busy  crowd's  tumultuous  din: 

From  noise  and  wrangling  far,  and  undisturbed 

With  Mirth's  unholy  shouts.     For  me  the  day 

Hath  duties  which  require  the  vigorous  hand 

Of  steadfast  application,  but  which  leave 

No  deep  improving  trace  upon  the  mind. 

But  be  the  day  another's ;  —  let  it  pass ! 

The  night's  my  own !  —  They  cannot  steal  my  night ! 

When  evening  lights  her  folding  star  on  high, 

I  live  and  breathe ;  and  in  the  sacred  hours 

*  The  Author  was  then  in  an  attorney's  office. 


22  THE    POEMS    OF 

Of  quiet  and  repose  my  spirit  flies, 

Free  as  the  morning,  o'er  the  realms  of  space, 

And  mounts  the  skies,  and  mips  her  wing  for  Heaven. 

Hence  do  I  love  the  sober-suited  maid ; 

Hence  Night's  my  friend,  my  mistress,  and  my  theme, 

And  she  shall  aid  me  now  to  magnify 

The  night  of  ages,  —  now  when  the  pale  ray 

Of  starlight  penetrates  the  studious  gloom, 

And,  at  my  window  seated,  while  mankind 

Are  locked  in  sleep,  I  feel  the  freshening  breeze 

Of  stillness  blow,  while,  in  her  saddest  stole, 

Thought,  like  a  wakeful  vestal  at  her  shrine, 

Assumes  her  wonted  sway. 

Behold  the  world 

Rests,  and  her  tired  inhabitants  have  paused 
From  trouble  and  turmoil.     The  widow  now 
Has  ceased  to  weep,  and  her  twin  orphans  lie 
Locked  in  each  arm,  partakers  of  her  rest. 
The  man  of  sorrow  has  forgot  his  woes ; 
The  outcast  that  his  head  is  shelterless, 
His  griefs  unshared.  —  The  mother  tends  no  more 
Her  daughter's  dying  slumbers,  but  surprised 
"With  heaviness,  and  sunk  upon  her  couch, 
Dreams  of  her  bridals.     Even  the  hectic,  lulled 
On  Death's  lean  arm  to  rest,  in  visions  wrapped, 
Crowning  with  Hope's  bland  wreath  his  shuddering 

nurse, 

Poor  victim  !  smiles.  —  Silence  and  deep  repose 
Reign  o'er  the  nations ;  and  the  warning  voice 


KIRKE    WHITK.  23 

Of  Nature  utters  audibly  within 

The  general  moral :  —  tells  us  that  repose, 

Deathlike  as  this,  but  of  far  longer  span, 

Is  coming  on  us  —  that,  the  weary  crowds, 

Who  now  enjoy  a  temporary  calm, 

Shall  soon  taste  lasting  quiet,  wrapped  around 

With  grave  clothes :  and  their  aching  restless  heads 

Mouldering  in  holes  and  corners  unobserved, 

Till  the  last  trump  shall  break  their  sullen  sleep. 

Who  needs  a  teacher  to  admonish  him 

That  flesh  is  grass,  that  earthly  things  are  mist  ? 

What  are  our  joys  but  dreams  ?  and  what  our  hopes 

But  goodly  shadows  in  the  summer  cloud  ? 

There 's  not  a  wind  that  blows  but  bears  with  it 

Some  rainbow  promise :  —  not  a  moment  flies 

But  puts  its  sickle  hi  the  fields  of  life, 

And  mows  its  thousands,  with  their  joys  and  cares. 

'T  is  but  as  yesterday  since  on  yon  stars, 

Whidi  now  I  view,  the  Chaldee  shepherd  *  gazed 

In  his  mid  watch  observant,  and  disposed 

The  twinkling  hosts  as  fancy  gave  them  shape. 

Yet  in  the  interim  what  mighty  shocks 

Have  buffeted  mankind  —  whole  nations  razed  — 

Cities  made  desolate  —  the  polished  sunk 

To  barbarism,  and  once  barbaric  states 

Swaying  the  wand  of  science  and  of  arts; 

Illustrious  deeds  and  memorable  names 

*  Alluding  to  the  first  astronomical  observations  made  by  the 
Chaldean  shepherds. 


24  THE    POEMS    OP 

Blotted  from  record,  and  upon  the  tongue 
Of  gray  Tradition,  voluble  no  more. 

Where  are  the  heroes  of  the  ages  past  ? 

Where  the  brave  chieftains,  where  the  mighty  ones 

Who  flourished  in  the  infancy  of  days  ? 

All  to  the  grave  gone  down.     On  their  fallen  fame 

Exultant,  mocking  at  the  pride  of  man, 

Sits  grim  Forgetfulness.  —  The  warrior's  arm 

Lies  nerveless  on  the  pillow  of  its  shame ; 

Hushed  is  his  stormy  voice,  and  quenched  the  blaze 

Of  his  red  eyeball.  —  Yesterday  his  name 

Was  mighty  on  the  earth.  —  To-day  —  't  is  what  ? 

The  meteor  of  the  night  of  distant  years, 

That  flashed  unnoticed,  save  by  wrinkled  eld, 

Musing  at  midnight  upon  prophecies, 

Who  at  her  lonely  lattice  saw  the  gleam 

Point  to  the  mist-poised  shroud,  then  quietly 

Closed  her  pale  lips,  and  lock'd  the  secret  up 

Safe  in  the  enamel's  treasures. 

Oh  how  weak 

Is  mortal  man !  how  trifling  —  how  confined 
His  scope  of  vision !  Puffed  with  confidence, 
His  phrase  grows  big  with  immortality, 
And  he,  poor  insect  of  a  summer's  day  ! 
Dreams  of  eternal  honours  to  his  name ; 
Of  endless  glory  and  perennial  bays. 
He  idly  reasons  of  eternity, 
As  of  the  train  of  ages,  —  when,  alas ! 
Ten  thousand  thousand  of  his  centuries 


KIRKE    WHITE.  25 

Are,  in  comparison,  a  little  point 

Too  trivial  for  account.  —  0,  it  is  strange, 

'Tis  passing  strange,  to  mark  his  fallacies ; 

Behold  him  proudly  view  some  pompous  pile, 

Whose  high  dome  swells  to  emulate  the  skies, 

And  smile,  and  say,  "  My  name  shall  live  with  this 

Till  time  shall  be  no  more ; "  while  at  his  feet, 

Yea,  at  his  very  feet,  the  crumbling  dust 

Of  the  fallen  fabric  of  the  other  day 

Preaches  the  solemn  lesson.  —  He  should  know 

That  time  must  conquer ;  that  the  loudest  blast 

That  ever  filTd  Renown's  obstreperous  trump 

Fades  in  the  lapse  of  ages,  and  expires. 

Who  lies  inhumed  in  the  terrific  gloom 

Of  the  gigantic  pyramid  ?  or  who 

Reared  its  huge  walls  ?     Oblivion  laughs,  and  says, 

The  prey  is  mine.  —  They  sleep,  and  never  more 

Their  names  shall  strike  upon  the  ear  of  man, 

Their  memory  burst  its  fetters. 

Where  is  Rome? 

She  lives  but  in  the  tale  of  other  times ; 
Her  proud  pavilions  are  the  hermit's  home, 
And  her  long  colonnades,  her  public  walks, 
Now  faintly  echo  to  the  pilgrim's  feet, 
Who  comes  to  muse  in  solitude,  and  trace, 
Through  the  rank  moss  revealed,  her  honoured  dust. 
But  not  to  Rome  alone  has  fate  confined 
The  doom  of  ruin  ;  cities  numberless, 
Tyre,  Sidon,  Carthage,  Babylon,  and  Troy, 


26  THE    POEMS    OF 

And  rich  Phoenicia  —  they  are  blotted  out, 
Half  razed  from  memory,  and  their  very  name 
And  being  in  dispute.  —  Has  Athens  fallen  ? 
Is  polished  Greece  become  the  savage  seat 
Of  ignorance  and  sloth  ?  and  shall  we  dare 


And  empire  seeks  another  hemisphere. 
Where  now  is  Britain  ?  —  Where  her  laurelled  names. 
Her  palaces  and  halls  ?    Dashed  in  the  dust. 
Some  second  Vandal  hath  reduced  her  pride, 
And  with  one  big  recoil  hath  thrown  her  back 

To  primitive  barbarity. Again, 

Through  her  depopulated  vales,  the  scream 

Of  bloody  Superstition  hollow  rings, 

And  the  scared  native  to  the  tempest  howls 

The  yell  of  deprecation.     O'er  her  marts, 

Her  crowded  ports,  broods  Silence ;  and  the  cry 

Of  the  low  curlew,  and  the  pensive  dash 

Of  distant  billows,  breaks  alone  the  void ; 

Even  as  the  savage  sits  upon  the  stone 

That  marks  where  stood  her  capitols,  and  hears 

The  bittern  booming  in  the  weeds,  he  shrinks 

From  the  dismaying  solitude.  —  Her  bards 

Sing  in  a  language  that  hath  perished ; 

And  their  wild  harps  suspended  o'er  their  graves, 

Sigh  to  the  desert  winds  a  dying  strain. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  27 

Meanwhile  the  Arts,  in  second  infancy, 

Rise  in  some  distant  clime,  and  then,  perchance, 

Some  bold  adventurer,  filled  with  golden  dreams, 

Steering  his  bark  through  trackless  solitudes, 

Where,  to  his  wandering  thoughts,  no  daring  prow 

Hath  ever  ploughed  before,  —  espies  the  cliffs 

Of  fallen  Albion.  —  To  the  land  unknown 

1  le  journeys  joyful ;  and  perhaps  descries 

Some  vestige  of  her  ancient  stateliness : 

Then  he,  with  vain  conjecture,  fills  his  mind 

Of  the  unheard-of  race,  which  had  arrived 

At  science  in  that  solitary  nook, 

Far  from  the  civil  world ;  and  sagely  sighs, 

And  moralizes  on  the  state  of  man. 

Still  on  its  march,  unnoticed  and  unfelt, 

Moves  on  our  being.     "We  do  live  and  breathe, 

And  we  are  gone.     The  spoiler  heeds  us  not. 

We  have  our  springtime  and  our  rottenness ; 

And  as  we  fall,  another  race  succeeds, 

To  perish  likewise.  —  Meanwhile  Nature  smiles, 

The  Seasons  run  their  round,  the  Sun  fulfils 

His  annual  course  —  and  heaven  and  earth  remain 

Still  changing, -yet  unchanged  —  still  doomed  to  feel 

Endless  mutation  in  perpetual  rest. 

Where  are  concealed  the  days  which  have  elapsed  ? 

Hid  in  the  mighty  cavern  of  the  past, 

They  rise  upon  us  only  to  appall, 

By  indistinct  and  half-glimpsed  images, 

Misty,  gigantic,  huge,  obscure,  remote. 


28  THE   POEMS    OP 

Oh,  it  is  fearful,  on  the  midnight  couch, 

When  the  rude  rushing  winds  forget  to  rave, 

And  the  pale  moon,  that  through  the  casement  high 

Surveys  the  sleepless  muser,  stamps  the  hour 

Of  utter  silence,  it  is  fearful  then 

To  steer  the  mind,  in  deadly  solitude, 

Up  the  vague  stream  of  probability  ; 

To  wind  the  mighty  secrets  of  the  past, 

And  turn  the  key  of  Time !  —  Oh !  who  can  strive 

To  comprehend  the  vast,  the  awful  truth, 

Of  the  eternity  that  hath  gone  by, 

And  not  recoil  from  the  dismaying  sense 

Of  human  impotence  ?     The  life  of  man 

Is  summed  in  birthdays  and  in  sepulchres ; 

But  the  Eternal  God  had  no  beginning ; 

He  hath  no  end.     Time  had  been  with  him 

For  everlasting,  ere  the  daedal  world 

Rose  from  the  gulf  in  loveliness.  —  Like  him 

It  knew  no  source,  like  him,  't  was  uncreate. 

What  is  it  then  ?     The  past  Eternity ! 

We  comprehend  a  future  without  end ; 

We  feel  it  possible  that  even  yon  sun 

May  roll  for  ever :  but  we  shrink  amazed  — 

We  stand  aghast,  when  we  reflect  that  time 

Knew  no  commencement  —  that,  heap  age  on  age 

And  million  upon  million,  without  end, 

And  we  shall  never  span  the  void  of  days ' 

That  were  and  are  not  but  hi  retrospect. 

The  Past  is  an  unfathomable  depth, 

Beyond  the  span  of  thought;  'tis  an  elapse 


KIRKE    WHITE.  29 

Which  hath  no  mensuration,  but  hath  been 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 

Change  of  days 

To  us  is  sensible ;  and  each  revolve 
Of  the  recording  sun  conducts  us  on 
Further  in  life,  and  nearer  to  our  goal. 
Not  so  with  Time,  —  mysterious  chronicler, 
He  knoweth  not  mutation  ;  —  centuries 
Are  to  his  being  as  a  day,  and  days 
As  centuries.  —  Tune  past,  and  Time  to  come, 
Are  always  equal ;  when  the  world  began 
God  had  existed  from  eternity. 


Now  look  on  man 

Myriads  of  ages  hence.  —  Hath  time  elapsed  ? 
Is  he  not  standing  in  the  selfsame  place 
Where  once  we  stood  ?  —  The  same  eternity 
Hath  gone  before  him,  and  is  yet  to  come ; 
His  past  is  not  of  longer  span  than  ours, 
Though  myriads  of  ages  intervened ; 
For  who  can  add  to  what  has  neither  sum, 
Nor  bound,  nor  source,  nor  estimate,  nor  end  ? 
Oh,  who  can  compass  the  Almighty  mind  ? 
Who  can  unlock  the  secrets  of  the  High  ? 
In  speculations  of  an  altitude 
Sublime  as  this,  our  reason  stands  confessed 
Foolish,  and  insignificant,  and  mean. 
Who  can  apply  the  futile  argument 
Of  finite  beings  to  infinity  ? 


30  THE   POEMS    OF 

He  might  as  well  compress  the  universe 

Into  the  hollow  compass  of  a  gourd, 

Scooped  out  by  human  art ;  or  bid  the  whale 

Drink  up  the  sea  it  swims  in !  —  Can  the  less 

Contain  the  greater  ?  or  the  dark  obscure 

Infold  the  glories  of  meridian  day  ? 

What  does  philosophy  impart  to  man 

But  undiscovered  wonders  ?  —  Let  her  soar 

Even  to  her  proudest  heights  —  to  where  she  caught 

The  soul  of  Newton  and  of  Socrates, 

She  but  extends  the  scope  of  wild  amaze 

And  admiration.     All  her  lessons  end 

In  wider  views  of  God's  unfathomed  depths. 

Lo !  the  unlettered  hind,  who  never  knew 

To  raise  his  mind  excursive  to  the  heights 

Of  abstract  contemplation,  as  he  sits 

On  the  green  hillock  by  the  hedge-row  side, 

What  time  the  insect -swarms  are  murmuring, 

And  marks,  in  silent  thought,  the  broken  clouds 

That  fringe  with  loveliest  hues  the  evening  sky, 

Feels  in  his  soul  the  hand  of  Nature  rouse 

The  thrill  of  gratitude,  to  him  who  form'd 

The  goodly  prospect ;  he  beholds  the  God 

Throned  in  the  west,  and  his  reposing  ear 

Hears  sounds  angelic  in  the  fitful  breeze 

That  floats  through  neighbouring  copse  or  fairy  brake, 

Or  lingers  playful  on  the  haunted  stream. 

Go  with  the  cotter  to  his  winter  fire, 

Where  o'er  the  moors  the  loud  blast  whistles  shrill, 


KIKKE    WHITE.  31 

And  the  hoarse  ban-dog  bays  the  icy  moon ; 
Mark  with  what  awe  he  lists  the  wild  uproar, 
Silent,  and  big  with  thought ;  and  hear  him  bless 
The  God  that  rides  on  the  tempestuous  clouds, 
For  his  snug  hearth,  and  all  his  little  joys : 
Hear  him  compare  his  happier  lot  with  his 
Who  bends  his  way  across  the  wintry  wolds, 
A  poor  night  traveller,  while  the  dismal  snow 
Beats  in  his  face,  and,  dubious  of  his  path, 
He  stops,  and  thinks,  in  every  lengthening  blast, 
He  hears  some  village  mastiff's  distant  howl, 
And  sees,  far  streaming,  some  lone  cottage  light ; 
Then,  undeceived,  upturns  his  streaming  eyes, 
And  clasps  his  shivering  hands ;  or  overpowered, 
Sinks  on  the  frozen  ground,  weighed  down  with  sleep, 
From  which  the  hapless  wretch  shall  never  wake. 
Thus  the  poor  rustic  warms  his  heart  with  praise 
And  glowing  gratitude,  —  he  turns  to  bless, 
With  honest  warmth,  his  Maker  and  his  God ! 
And  shall  it  e'er  be  said,  that  a  poor  hind, 
Nursed  in  the  lap  of  Ignorance,  and  bred 
In  want  and  labour,  glows  with  nobler  zeal 
To  laud  his  Maker's  attributes,  while  he 
Whom  starry  Science  in  her  cradle  rocked, 
And  Castaly  enchastened  with  its  dews, 
Closes  his  eyes  upon  the  holy  -vord, 
And,  blind  to  all  but  arrogance  *tnd  pride, 
Dares  to  declare  his  infidelity, 
And  openly  contemn  the  Lord  of  Hosts  ? 
What  is  philosophy,  if  it  impart 


32  THE   POEMS    OF 

Irreverence  for  the  Deity,  or  teach 

A  mortal  man  to  set  his  judgment  up 

Against  his  Maker's  will  ?     The  Polygar, 

Who  kneels  to  sun  or  moon,  compared  with  him 

Who  thus  perverts  the  talents  he  enjoys, 

Is  the  most  blest  of  men !     Oh !  I  would  walk 

A  weary  journey,  to  the  furthest  verge 

Of  the  big  world,  to  kiss  that  good  man's  hand; 

Who,  in  the  blaze  of  wisdom  and  of  art, 

Preserves  a  lowly  mind ;  and  to  his  God, 

Feeling  the  sense  of  his  own  littleness, 

Is  as  a  child  in  meek  simplicity ! 

What  is  the  pomp  of  learning  ?  the  parade 

Of  letters  and  of  tongues  ?  e'en  as  the  mists 

Of  the  gray  morn  before  the  rising  sun, 

That  pass  away  and  perish. 

Earthly  things 

Are  but  the  transient  pageants  of  an  hour ; 
And  earthly  pride  is  like  the  passing  flower, 
That  springs  to  fall,  and  blossoms  but  to  die. 
'T  is  as  the  tower  erected  on  a  cloud, 
Baseless  and  silly  as  the  schoolboy's  dream. 
Ages  and  epochs  that  destroy  our  pride, 
And  then  record  its  downfall,  what  are  they 
But  the  poor  creatures  of  man's  teeming  brain  ? 
Hath  Heaven  its  ages  ?  or  doth  Heaven  preserve 
Its  stated  eras  ?     Doth  the  Omnipotent 
Hear  of  to-morrows  or  of  yesterdays  ? 
There  is  to  God  nor  future  nor  a  past ; 
Throned  hi  his  might,  all  times  to  him  are  present ; 


KIRKE   WHITE.  33 

He  hath  no  lapse,  no  past,  no  time  to  come ; 
He  sees  before  him  one  eternal  now. 
Time  moveth  not !  —  our  being  't  is  that  moves ; 
And  we,  swift  gliding  down  life's  rapid  stream, 
Dream  of  swift  ages  and  revolving  years, 
Ordain'd  to  chronicle  our  passing  days : 
So  the  young  sailor  in  the  gallant  bark, 
Scudding  before  the  wind,  beholds  the  coast 
Receding  from  his  eyes,  and  thinks  the  while, 
Struck  with  amaze,  that  he  is  motionless, 
And  that  the  land  is  sailing. 

Such,  alas ! 

Are  the  illusions  of  this  proteus  life ! 
All,  all  is  false :  through  every  phasis  still 
'T  is  shadowy  and  deceitful.     It  assumes 
The  semblances  of  things  and  specious  shapes ; 
But  the  lost  traveller  might  as  soon  rely 
On  the  evasive  spirit  of  the  marsh, 
Whose  lantern  beams,  and  vanishes,  and  flits, 
O'er  bog,  and  rock,  and  pit,  and  hollow  way, 
As  we  on  its  appearances. 

On  earth 

There  is  no  certainty  nor  stable  hope. 
As  well  the  weary  mariner,  whose  bark 
Is  toss'd  beyond  Cimmerian  Bosphorus, 
Where  storm  and  darkness  hold  their  drear  domain, 
And  sunbeams  never  penetrate,  might  trust 
To  expectation  of  serener  skies, 
And  linger  in  the  very  jaws  of  death, 
Because  some  peevish  cloud  were  opening, 
3 


34  THE   POEMS    OF 

Or  the  loud  storm  had  bated  in  its  rage ; 

As  we  look  forward  in  this  vale  of  tears 

To  permanent  delight  —  from  some  slight  glimpse 

Of  shadowy,  unsubstantial  happiness. 

The  good  man's  hope  is  laid  far,  far  beyond 

The  sway  of  tempests,  or  the  furious  sweep 

Of  mortal  desolation.  —  He  beholds 

Unapprehensive,  the  gigantic  stride 

Of  rampant  Ruin,  or  the  unstable  waves 

Of  dark  Vicissitude.  —  Even  in  death,  — 

In  that  dread  hour,  when,  with  a  giant  pang, 

Tearing  the  tender  fibres  of  the  heart, 

The  immortal  spirit  struggles  to  be  free, 

Then,  even  then,  that  hope  forsakes  him  not, 

For  it  exists  beyond  the  narrow  verge 

Of  the  cold  sepulchre.     The  petty  joys 

Of  fleeting  life  indignantly  it  spurned, 

And  rested  on  the  bosom  of  its  God. 

This  is  man's  only  reasonable  hope ; 

And  't  is  a  hope  which,  cherished  in  the  breast, 

Shall  not  be  disappointed.     Even  he, 

The  Holy  One  —  Almighty  —  who  elanced 

The  rolling  world  along  its  airy  way, 

Even  He  will  deign  to  smile  upon  the  good, 

And  welcome  him  to  these  celestial  seats, 

Where  joy  and  gladness  hold  their  changeless  reign. 

Thou,  proud  man,  look  upon  yon  starry  vault, 
Survey  the  countless  gems  which  richly  stud 


KIRKE    WHITE.  35 

The  night's  imperial  chariot ;  —  telescopes 

Will  show  thee  myriads  more  innumerous 

Than  the  sea  sand ;  —  each  of  those  little  lamps 

Is  the  great  source  of  light,  the  central  sun 

Round  which  some  other  mighty  sisterhood 

Of  planets  travel,  every  planet  stock'd 

With  living  beings  impotent  as  thee. 

Now,  proud  man !  now,  where  is  thy  greatness  fled  ? 

What  art  thou  in  the  scale  of  universe  ? 

Less,  less  than  nothing !  —  Yet  of  thee  the  God 

Who  built  this  wondrous  frame  of  worlds  is  careful, 

As  well  as  of  the  mendicant  who  begs 

The  leavings  of  thy  table.     And  shalt  thou 

Lift  up  thy  thankless  spirit,  and  contemn 

His  heavenly  providence !     Deluded  fool, 

Even  now  the  thunderbolt  is  winged  with  death, 

Even  now  thou  totterest  on  the  brink  of  hell. 

How  insignificant  is  mortal  man, 
Bound  to  the  hasty  pinions  of  an  hour ! 
How  poor,  how  trivial  in  the  vast  conceit 
Of  infinite  duration,  boundless  space  ! 
God  of  the  universe  !  Almighty  One ! 
Thou  who  dost  walk  upon  the  winged  winds, 
Or  with  the  storm,  thy  rugged  charioteer, 
Swift  and  impetuous  as  the  northern  blast, 
Eldest  from  pole  to  pole  ;  Thou  who  dost  hold 
The  forked  lightnings  in  thine  awful  grasp, 
And  reignest  in  the  earthquake,  when  thy  wrath 
Goes  down  towards  erring  man,  I  would  address 


36  THE   POEMS    OF 

To  thee  my  parting  paean ;  for  of  Thee, 
Great  beyond  comprehension,  who  thyself 
Art  Time  and  Space,  sublime  Infinitude, 
Of  Thee  has  been  my  song !  —  With  awe  I  kneel 
Trembling  before  the  footstool  of  thy  state, 
My  God  !  —  my  Father !  —  I  will  sing  to  thee 
A  hymn  of  laud,  a  solemn  canticle, 
Ere  on  the  cypress  wreath,  which  overshades 
The  throne  of  Death,  I  hang  my  mournful  lyre, 
And  give  its  wild  strings  to  the  desert  gale. 
Rise,  Son  of  Salem  !  rise,  and  join  the  strain, 
,  Sweep  to  accordant  tones  thy  tuneful  harp, 
And,  leaving  vain  laments,  arouse  thy  soul 
To  exultation.     Sing  hosanna,  sing, 
And  halleluiah,  for  the  Lord  is  great, 
And  full  of  mercy !     He  has  thought  of  man ; 
Yea,  compass'd  round  with  countless  worlds,  has 

thought 

Of  us  poor  worms,  that  batten  in  the  dews 
Of  morn,  and  perish  ere  the  noonday  sun. 
Sing  to  the  Lord,  for  he  is  merciful : 
He  gave  the  Nubian  lion  but  to  live, 
To  rage  its  hour,  and  perish ;  but  on  man 
He  lavished  immortality  and  Heaven. 
The  eagle  falls  from  her  aerial  tower. 
And  mingles  with  irrevocable  dust : 
But  man  from  death  springs  joyful, 
Springs  up  to  life  and  to  eternity. 
Oh!  that,  insensate  of  the  favouring  boon, 
The  great  exclusive  privilege  bestowed 


KIRKE    WHITE.  37 

On  us  unworthy  trifles,  men  should  dare 

To  treat  with  slight  regard  the  proffered  Heaven, 

And  urge  the  lenient,  but  All-Just,  to  swear 

In  wrath,  "  They  shall  not  enter  in  my  rest." 

Might  I  address  the  supplicative  strain 

To  thy  high  footstool,  I  would  pray  that  thou 

Wouldst  pity  the  deluded  wanderers, 

And  fold  them,  ere  they  perish,  hi  thy  flock. 

Yea,  I  would  bid  thee  pity  them,  through  Hun, 

Thy  well  beloved,  who,  upon  the  cross, 

Bled  a  dread  sacrifice  for  human  sin, 

And  paid,  with  bitter  agony,  the  debt 

Of  primitive  transgression. 

Oh !  I  shrink, 

My  very  soul  doth  shrink,  when  I  reflect 
*That  the  tune  hastens,  when,  in  vengeance  clothed, 
Thou  shalt  come  down  to  stamp  the  seal  of  fate 
On  erring  mortal  man.     Thy  chariot  wheels 
Then  shall  rebound  to  earth's  remotest  caves, 
And  stormy  Ocean  from  his  bed  shall  start 
At  the  appalling  summons.     Oh !  how  dread, 
On  the  dark  eye  of  miserable  man, 
Chasing  his  sins  in  secrecy  and  gloom, 
Will  burst  the  effulgence  of  the  opening  Heaven ; 
When  to  the  brazen  trumpet's  deafening  roar 
Thou  and  thy  dazzling  cohorts  shall  descend, 
Proclaiming  the  fulfilment  of  the  word ! 
The  dead  shall  start  astonished  from  their  sleep ! 
The  sepulchres  shall  groan  and  yield  their  prey, 
The  bellowing  floods  shall  disembogue  their  charge 


38  THE    POEMS    OF 

Of  human  victims.     From  the  farthest  nook 

Of  the  wide  world  shall  troop  their  risen  souls, 

From  him  whose  bones  are  bleaching  hi  the  waste 

Of  polar  solitudes,  or  him  whose  corpse, 

Whelm'd  in  the  loud  Atlantic's  vexed  tides, 

Is  washed  on  some  Caribbean  prominence, 

To  the  lone  tenant  of  some  secret  cell 

In  the  Pacific's  vast  ....  realm, 

Where  never  plummet's  sound  was  heard  to  part 

The  wilderness  of  water ;  they  shall  come 

To  greet  the  solemn  advent  of  the  Judge. 

Thou  first  shalt  summon  the  elected  saints 

To  their  apportion'd  Heaven !  and  thy  Son, 

At  thy  right  hand,  shall  smile  with  conscious  joy 

On  all  his  past  distresses,  when  for  them 

He  bore  humanity's  severest  pangs. 

Then  shalt  thou  seize  the  avenging  scimitar, 

And,  with  a  roar  as  loud  and  horrible 

As  the  stern  earthquake's  monitory  voice, 

The  wicked  shall  be  driven  to  their  abode, 

Down  the  immitigable  gulf,  to  wail 

And  gnash  their  teeth  in  endless  agony. 


Rear  thou  aloft  thy  standard.  —  Spirit,  rear 
Thy  flag  on  high !  —  invincible,  and  throned 
In  unparticipated  might.     Behold 
Earth's  proudest  boasts,  beneath  thy  silent  sway, 
Sweep  headlong  to  destruction,  thou  the  while, 


KIRKE    WHITE.  39 

Unmoved  and  heedless,  thou  dost  hear  the  rush 

Of  mighty  generations,  as  they  pass 

To  the  broad  gulf  of  ruin,  and  dost  stamp 

Thy  signet  on  them,  and  they  rise  no  more. 

Who  shall  contend  with  Tune  —  un vanquished  Time, 

The  conqueror  of  conquerors,  and  lord 

Of  desolation  ?  —  Lo!  the  shadows  fly, 

The  hours  and  days,  and  years  and  centuries ; 

They  fly,  they  fly,  and  nations  rise  and  fall, 

The  young  are  old,  the  old  are  in  their  graves. 

Heard'st  thou  that  shout  ?  It  rent  the  vaulted  skies ; 

It  was  the  voice  of  people,  —  mighty  crowds,  — 

Again  !  'tis  hushed  —  Tune  speaks,  and  all  is  hushed ; 

In  the  vast  multitude  now  reigns  alone 

Unruffled  solitude.     They  all  are  still ; 

All  —  yea,  the  whole  —  the  incalculable  mass, 

Still  as  the  ground  that  clasps  their  cold  remains. 

Rear  thou  aloft  thy  standard.    Spirit,  rear 

Thy  flag  on  high,  and  glory  in  thy  strength. 

But  do  thou  know  the  season  yet  shall  come, 

When  from  its  base  thine  adamantine  throne 

Shall  tumble ;  when  thine  arm  shall  cease  to  strike, 

Thy  voice  forget  its  petrifying  power ; 

When  saints  shall  shout,  and  Time  shall  be  no  more. 

Yea,  he  doth  come  —  the  mighty  champion  comes, 

Whose  potent  spear  shall  give  thee  thy  death  wound, 

Shall  crush  the  conqueror  of  conquerors, 

And  desolate  stern  Desolation's  lord. 

Lo !  where  he  cometh !  the  Messiah  comes ! 


40  THE    POEMS    OF 

The  King !  the  Comforter !  the  Christ !  —  He  comes 
To  burst  the  bonds  of  Death,  and  overturn 
The  power  of  Time.  —  Hark !  the  trumpet's  blast 
Rings  o'er  the  heavens!    They  rise,  the  myriads 

rise  — 
Even  from  their  graves  they  spring,  and  burst  the 

chains 
Of  torpor,  —  He  has  ransom'd  them,     .     .     . 

Forgotten  generations  live  again, 
Assume  the  bodily  shapes  they  owned  of  old, 
Beyond  the  flood :  —  the  righteous  of  their  times 
Embrace  and  weep,  they  weep  the  tears  of  joy. 
The  sainted  mother  wakes,  and  in  her  lap 
Clasps  her  dear  babe,  the  partner  of  her  grave, 
And  heritor  with  her  of  Heaven,  —  a  flower 
Washed  by  the  blood  of  Jesus  from  the  stain 
Of  native  guilt,  even  in  its  early  bud. 
And,  hark  !  those  strains,  how  solemnly  serene 
They  fall,  as  from  the  skies  —  at  distance  fall  — 
Again  more  loud  —  the  halleluiahs  swell ; 
The  newly  risen  catch  the  joyful  sound ; 
They  glow,  they  burn ;  and  now  with  one  accord 
Bursts  forth  sublime  from  every  mouth  the  song 
Of  praise  to  God  on  high,  and  to  the  Lamb 
Who  bled  for  mortals. 


Yet  there  is  peace  for  man.  —  Yea,  there  is  peace 
Even  in  this  noisy,  this  unsettled  scene  ; 


KIRKE    WHITE.  41 

When  from  the  crowd,  and  from  the  city  far, 
Haply  he  may  be  set  (hi  his  late  walk 
O'ertaken  with  deep  thought)  beneath  the  boughs 
Of  honeysuckle,  when  the  sun  is  gone, 
And  with  fixed  eye,  and  wistful,  he  surveys 
The  solemn  shadows  of  the  Heavens  sail, 
And  thinks  the  season  yet  shall  come,  when  Tune 
Will  waft  him  to  repose,  to  deep  repose, 
Far  from  the  unquietness  of  life  —  from  noise 
And  tumult  far  —  beyond  the  flying  clouds, 
Beyond  the  stars,  and  all  this  passing  scene, 
Where  change  shall  cease,  and  Time  shall  be  no  more. 


CHILDHOOD.* 

A  POEM. 
PART     I. 

PICTURED  hi  memory's  mellowing  glass,  how  sweet 
Our  infant  days,  our  infant  joys,  to  greet ; 
To  roam  in  fancy  in  each  cherished  scene, 
The  village  churchyard,  and  the  village  green, 
The  woodland  walk  remote,  the  greenwood  glade, 
The  mossy  seat  beneath  the  hawthorn  shade, 

•  This  appears  to  be  one  of  the  Author's  earliest  productions: 
written  when  about  the  age  of  fourteen. 


42  THE   POEMS    OF 

The  whitewashed  cottage,  where  the  woodbine  grew, 
And  all  the  favourite  haunts  our  childhood  knew ! 
How  sweet,  while  all  the  evil  shuns  the  gaze, 
To  view  the  unclouded  skies  of  former  days ! 

Beloved  age  of  innocence  and  smiles, 
When  each  wing'd  hour  some  new  delight  beguiles. 
When  the  gay  heart,  to  life's  sweet  dayspring  true, 
Still  finds  some  insect  pleasure  to  pursue. 
Bless'd  Childhood,  hail !  —  Thee  simply  will  I  sing, 
And  from  myself  the  artless  picture  bring ; 
These  long-lost  scenes  to  me  the  past  restore, 
Each  humble  friend,  each  pleasure  now  no  more, 
And  every  stump  familiar  to  my  sight 
Recalls  some  fond  idea  of  delight. 

This  shrubby  knoll  was  once  my  favourite  seat ; 
Here  did  I  love  at  evening  to  retreat, 
And  muse  alone,  till  in  the  vault  of  night, 
Hesper,  aspiring,  showed  his  golden  light. 
Here  once  again,  remote  from  human  noise, 
I  sit  me  down  to  think  of  former  joys ; 
Pause  on  each  scene,  each  treasured  scene,  once  more, 
And  once  again  each  infant  walk  explore, 
While  as  each  grove  and  lawn  I  recognize, 
My  melted  soul  suffuses  in  my  eyes. 

And  oh !  thou  Power,  whose  myriad  trains  resort 
To  distant  scenes,  and  picture  them  to  thought ; 
Whose  mirror,  held  unto  the  mourner's  eye, 
Flings  to  his  soul  a  borrowed  gleam  of  joy ; 
Bless'd  Memory,  guide,  with  finger  nicely  true, 
Back  to  my  youth  my  retrospective  view ; 


KIBKE    WHITE.  43 

Recall  with  faithful  vigour  to  my  mind 
Each  face  familiar,  each  relation  kind ; 
And  all  the  finer  traits  of  them  afford, 
Whose  general  outline  in  my  heart  is  stored. 

In  yonder  cot,  along  whose  mouldering  walls 
In  many  a  fold  the  mantling  woodbine  falls, 
The  village  matron  kept  her  little  school, 
Gentle  of  heart,  yet  knowing  well  to  rule ; 
Staid  was  the  dame,  and  modest  was  her  mien  ; 
Her  garb  was  coarse,  yet  whole,  and  nicely  clean ; 
Her  neatly  bordered  cap,  as  lily  fair, 
Beneath  her  chin  was  pinned  with  decent  care ; 
And  pendent  ruffles,  of  the  whitest  lawn, 
Of  ancient  make,  her  elbows  did  adorn. 
Faint  with  old  age,  and  dim  were  grown  her  eyes, 
A  pair  of  spectacles  their  want  supplies ; 
These  does  she  guard  secure,  in  leathern  case, 
From  thoughtless  wights,  in  some  unweeted  place. 

Here  first  I  entered,  though  with  toil  and  pain, 
The  low  vestibule  of  learning's  fane ; 
Entered  with  pain,  yet  soon  I  found  the  way, 
Though  sometimes  toilsome,  many  a  sweet  display. 
Much  did  I  grieve  on  that  ill  fated  morn 
When  I  was  first  to  school  reluctant  borne ; 
Severe  I  thought  the  dame,  though  oft  she  tried 
To  soothe  my  swelling  spirits  when  I  sighed ; 
And  oft,  when  harshly  she  reproved,  I  wept, 
To  my  lone  corner  broken-hearted  crept,          [kept. 
And  thought  of  tender  home,  where  anger  never 

But  soon  inured  to  alphabetic  toils, 
Alert  I  met  the  dame  with  jocund  smiles ; 


44  THE    POEMS    OF 

First  at  the  form,  my  task  for  ever  true, 

A  little  favourite  rapidly  I  grew : 

And  oft  she  stroked  my  head  with  fond  delight, 

Held  me  a  pattern  to  the  dunce's  sight ; 

And  as  she  gave  my  diligence  its  praise, 

Talked  of  the  honours  of  my  future  days. 

Oh !  had  the  venerable  matron  thought 
Of  all  the  ills  by  talent  often  brought ; 
Could  she  have  seen  me  when  revolving  years 
Had  brought  me  deeper  in  the  vale  of  tears, 
Then  had  she  wept,  and  wished  my  wayward  fate 
Had  been  a  lowlier,  an  unlettered  state ; 
Wished  that,  remote  from  worldly  woes  and  strife, 
Unknown,  unheard,  I   might  have  passed  through 
life. 

Where  in  the  busy  scene,  by  peace  unblessed, 
Shall  the  poor  wanderer  find  a  place  of  rest  ? 
A  lonely  mariner  on  the  stormy  main, 
Without  a  hope  the  calms  of  peace  to  gain  ; 
Long  tossed  by  tempests  o'er  the  world's  wide  shore, 
When  shall  his  spirit  rest  to  toil  no  more  ? 
Not  till  the  light  foam  of  the  sea  shall  lave 
The  sandy  surface  of  his  unwept  grave. 
Childhood,  to  thee  I  turn,  from  life's  alarms, 
Serenest  season  of  perpetual  calms,  — 
Turn  with  delight,  and  bid  the  passions  cease, 
And  joy  to  think  with  thee  I  tasted  peace. 
Sweet  reign  of  innocence,  when  no  crime  defiles, 
But  each  new  object  brings  attendant  smiles  ; 
When  future  evils  never  haunt  the  sight, 
But  all  is  pregnant  with  unmixed  delight ; 


KIBKE    WHITE.  45 

To  thee  I  turn  from  not  and  from  noise, 
Turn  to  partake  of  more  congenial  joys. 

'Neath  yonder  elm,  that  stands  upon  the  moor, 
When  the  clock  spoke  the  hour  of  labour  o'er, 
What  clamorous  throngs,  what  happy  groups  were 
In  various  postures  scattering  o'er  the  green !  [seen, 
Some  shoot  the  marble,  others  join  the  chase 
Of  self-made  stag,  or  run  the  emulous  race ; 
While  others,  seated  on  the  dappled  grass, 
With  doleful  tales  the  light- winged  minutes  pass. 
Well  I  remember  how,  with  gesture  starched, 
A  band  of  soldiers  oft  with  pride  we  march'd ; 
For  banners  to  a  tall  ash  we  did  bind 
Our  handkerchiefs,  flapping  to  the  whistling  wind ; 
And  for  our  warlike  arms  we  sought  the  mead, 
And  guns  and  spears  we  made  of  brittle  reed ; 
Then,  in  uncouth  array,  our  feats  to  crown, 
We  storm 'd  some  ruined  pigsty  for  a  town. 

Pleased  with  our  gay  disports,  the  dame  was  wont 
To  set  her  wheel  before  the  cottage  front, 
And  o'er  her  spectacles  would  often  peer, 
To  view  our  gambols,  and  our  boyish  gear. 
Still  as  she  looked,  her  wheel  kept  turning  round, 
With  its  beloved  monotony  of  sound. 
When  tired  with  play,  we'd  set  us  by  her  side 
(For  out  of  school  she  never  knew  to  chide), 
And  wonder  at  her  skill  —  well  known  to  fame  — 
For  who  could  match  in  spinning  with  the  dame  ? 
Her  sheets,  her  linen,  which  she  showed  with  pride 
To  strangers,  still  her  thriftness  testified ; 


46  THE   POEMS    OP 

Though  we  poor  wights  did  wonder  much,  in  troth, 
How  't  was  her  spinning  manufactured  cloth. 

Oft  would  we  leave,  though  well  beloved,  our  play 
To  chat  at  home  the  vacant  hour  away. 
Many 's  the  time  I'  ve  scampered  in  the  glade, 
To  ask  the  promised  ditty  from  the  maid, 
Which  well  she  loved,  as  well  she  knew  to  sing, 
While  we  around  her  formed  a  little  ring : 
She  told  of  innocence  foredoomed  to  bleed, 
Of  wicked  guardians  bent  on  bloody  deed, 
Or  little  children  murdered  as  they  slept ; 
While  at  each  pause  we  wrung  our  hands  and  wept. 
Sad  was  such  tale,  and  wonder  much  did  we 
Such  hearts  of  stone  there  in  the  world  could  be. 
Poor  simple  wights,  ah !  little  did  we  ween 
The  ills  that  wait  on  man  in  life's  sad  scene  ! 
Ah,  little  thought  that  we  ourselves  should  know 
This  world 's  a  world  of  weeping  and  of  woe ! 
Beloved  moment !  then  'twas  first  I  caught 
The  first  foundation  of  romantic  thought ! 
Then  first  I  shed  bold  Fancy's  thrilling  tear, 
Then  first  that  poesy  charmed  mine  infant  ear. 
Soon  stored  with  much  of  legendary  lore, 
The  sports  of  childhood  charmed  my  soul  no  more. 
Far  from  the  scene  of  gaiety  and  noise, 
Far,  far  from  turbulent  and  empty  joys, 
I  hied  me  to  the  thick  o'erarchine:  shade, 

O  * 

And  there,  on  mossy  carpet,  listless  laid, 
While  at  my  feet  the  rippling  runnel  ran, 
The  days  of  wild  romance  antique  I  'd  scan ; 


KIBKE   WHITE.  47 

Soar  on  the  wings  of  fancy  through  the  air, 

To  realms  of  light,  and  pierce  the  radiance  there. 


PART    II. 

There  are  who  think  that  Childhood  does  not  share 
With  age  the  cup,  the  bitter  cup,  of  care : 
Alas  !  they  know  not  this  unhappy  truth, 
That  every  age,  and  rank,  is  born  to  ruth. 

From  the  first  dawn  of  reason  in  the  mind, 
Man  is  foredoomed  the  thorns  of  grief  to  find ; 
At  every  step  has  farther  cause  to  know 
The  draught  of  pleasure  still  is  dashed  with  woe. 

Yet  in  the  youthful  breast,  for  ever  caught 
With  some  new  object  for  romantic  thought, 
The  impression  of  the  moment  quickly  flies, 
And  with  the  morrow  every  sorrow  dies.       [control 

How  different  manhood!  —  then  does  Thought's 
Sink  every  pang  still  deeper  in  the  soul ; 
Then  keen  Affliction's  sad  unceasing  smart 
Becomes  a  painful  resident  in  the  heart ; 
And  Care,  whom  not  the  gayest  can  outbrave, 
Pursues  its  feeble  victim  to  the  grave. 
Then,  as  each  long-known  friend  is  summon'd  hence, 
We  feel  a  void  no  joy  can  recompense, 
And  as  we  weep  o'er  every  new-made  tomb, 
Wish  that  ourselves  the  next  may  meet  our  doom. 

Yes,  Childhood,  thee  no  rankling  woes  pursue, 
No  forms  of  future  ill  salute  thy  view, 


48  THE   POEMS    OP 

No  pangs  repentant  bid  thee  wake  to  weep, 
But  halcyon  peace  protects  thy  downy  sleep, 
And  sanguine  Hope,  through  every  storm  of  life, 
Shoots  her  bright  beams,  and  calms  the  internal  strife. 
Yet  e'en  round  childhood's  heart,  a  thoughtless  shrine, 
Affection's  little  thread  will  ever  twine ; 
And  though  but  frail  may  seem  each  tender  tie, 
The  soul  foregoes  them  but  with  many  a  sigh. 
Thus,  when  the  long-expected  moment  came, 
When  forced  to  leave  the  gentle-hearted  dame, 
Reluctant  throbbings  rose  within  my  breast, 
And  a  stiil  tear  my  silent  grief  expressed. 

When  to  the  public  school  compelled  to  go, 
What  novel  scenes  did  on  my  senses  flow  ? 
There  in  each  breast  each  active  power  dilates, 
Which  'broils  whole  nations,  and  convulses  states ; 
Their  reigns,  by  turns  alternate,  love  and  hate, 
Ambition  burns,  and  factious  rebels  prate ; 
And  in  a  smaller  range,  a  smaller  sphere, 
The  dark  deformities  of  man  appear. 
Yet  there  the  gentler  virtues  kindred  claim. 
There  Friendship  lights  her  pure  untainted  flame, 
There  mild  Benevolence  delights  to  dwell, 
And  sweet  Contentment  rests  without  her  cell ; 
And  there,  'mid  many  a  stormy  soul,  we  find 
The  good  of  heart,  the  intelligent  of  mind. 

'T  was  there,  0  George !  with  thee  I  learned  to  join 
In  Friendship's  bands  —  in  amity  divine. 
Oh,  mournful  thought !  —  Where  is  thy  spirit  now  ? 
As  here  I  sit  on  favourite  Logar's  brow, 


KIBKE   WHITE.  49 

And  trace  below  each  well  remembered  glade, 
Where  arm  in  arm,  erewhile  with  thee  I  strayed. 
Where  art  thou  laid  —  on  what  untrodden  shore, 
Where  nought  is  heard  save  ocean's  sullen  roar  ? 
Dost  thou  in  lowly,  unlamented  state, 
At  last  repose  from  all  the  storms  of  fate  ? 
Methinks  I  see  thee  struggling  with  the  wave, 
Without  one  aiding  hand  stretched  out  to  save ; 
See  thee  convulsed,  thy  looks  to  heaven  bend, 
And  send  thy  parting  sigh  unto  thy  friend : 
Or  where  immeasurable  wilds  dismay, 
Forlorn  and  sad  thou  bend'st  thy  weary  way, 
While  sorrow  and  disease,  with  anguish  rife, 
Consume  apace  the  ebbing  springs  of  life. 
Again  I  see  his  door  against  thee  shut, 
The  unfeeling  native  turn  thee  from  his  hut ; 
I  see  thee,  spent  with  toil  and  worn  with  grief, 
Sit  on  the  grass,  and  wish  the  long'd  relief; 
Then  lie  thee  down,  the  stormy  struggle  o'er, 
Think  on  thy  native  land  —  and  rise  no  more ! 

Oh !  that  thou  couldst,  from  thine  august  abode, 
Survey  thy  friend  hi  life's  dismaying  road, 
That  thou  couldst  see  him,  at  this  moment  here, 
Embalpa  thy  memory  with  a  pious  tear, 
And  hover  o'er  him  as  he  gazes  round, 
Where  all  the  scenes  of  infant  joys  surround. 

Yes!  yes!   his   spirit's   near!  —  The  whispering 
Conveys  his  voice  sad  sighing  on  the  trees ;  [breeze 
And  lo !  his  form  transparent  I  perceive, 
Borne  on  the  gray  mist  of  the  sullen  eve : 
4 


50  THE  POEMS   OP 

He  hovers  near,  clad  in  the  night's  dim  robe, 
While  deathly  silence  reigns  upon  .the  globe. 

Yet  ah !  whence  comes  this  visionary  scene  ? 
Tis  Fancy's  wild  aerial  dream  I  ween : 
By  her  inspired,  when  reason  takes  its  flight, 
What  fond  illusions  beam  upon  the  sight ! 
She  waves  her  hand,  and  lo !  what  forms  appear ! 
What  magic  sounds  salute  the  wondering  ear ! 
Once  more  o'er  distant  regions  do  we  tread, 
And  the  cold  grave  yields  up  its  cherished  dead ; 
While,  present  sorrows  banished  far  away, 
Unclouded  azure  gilds  the  placid  day, 
Or,  in  the  future's  cloud-encircled  face, 
Fair  scenes  of  bliss  to  come  we  fondly  trace, 
And  draw  minutely  every  little  wile, 
Which  shall  the  feathery  hours  of  time  beguile. 

So  when  forlorn,  and  lonesome  at  her  gate, 
The  Royal  Mary  solitary  sate, 
And  viewed  the  moonbeam  trembling  on  the  wave, 
And  heard  the  hollow  surge  her  prison  lave, 
Towards  France's  distant  coast  she  bent  her  sight, 
For  there  her  soul  had  winged  its  longing  flight ; 
There  did  she  form  full  many  a  scheme  of  joy, 
Visions  of  bliss  unclouded  with  alloy, 
Which  bright  through  Hope's  deceitful  optics  beamed, 
And  all  became  the  surety  which  it  seemed  ; 
She  wept,  yet  felt,  while  all  within  was  calm, 
In  every  tear  a  melancholy  charm. 

To  yonder  hill,  whose  sides, -deformed  and  steep, 
Just  yield  a  scanty  sustenance  to  the  sheep, 


KIRKE    WHITE.  51 

With  thee,  my  friend,  I  oftentimes  have  sped, 

To  see  the  sun  rise  from  his  healthy  bed ; 

To  watch  the  aspect  of  the  summer  morn, 

Smiling  upon  the  golden  fields  of  corn, 

And  taste,  delighted,  of  superior  joys, 

Beheld  through  sympathy's  enchanted  eyes : 

With  silent  admiration  oft  we  viewed 

The  myriad  hues  o'er  heaven's  blue  concave  strewed; 

The  fleecy  clouds,  of  every  tint  and  shade, 

Round  which  the  silvery  sunbeam  glancing  played. 

And  the  round  orb  itself,  in  azure  throne, 

Just  peeping  o'er  the  blue  hill's  ridgy  zone ; 

We  marked  delighted,  how  with  aspect  gay, 

Reviving  Nature  hailed  returning  day ; 

Marked  how  the  flowerets  reared  their  drooping  heads, 

And  the  wild  lambkins  bounded  o'er  the  meads, 

While  from  each  tree,  in  tones  of  sweet  delight, 

The  birds  sung  paeans  to  the  source  of  light : 

Oft  have  we  watched  the  speckled  lark  arise, 

Leave  his  grass  bed,  and  soar  to  kindred  skies, 

And  rise,  and  rise,  till  the  pained  sight  no  more 

Could  trace  him  in  his  high  aerial  tour ; 

Though  on  the  ear,  at  intervals,  his  song 

Came  wafted  slow  the  wavy  breeze  along ; 

And  we  have  thought  how  happy  were  our  lot, 

Blest  with  some  sweet,  some  solitary  cot, 

Where,  from  the  peep  of  day,  till  russet  eve 

Began  in  every  dell  her  forms  to  weave, 

We  might  pursue  our  sporte  from  day  to  day, 

And  in  each  other's  arms  wear  life  away. 


52     -  THE   POEMS    OF 

At  sultry  noon  too,  when  our  toils  were  done, 
We  to  the  gloomy  glen  were  wont  to  run ; 
There  on  the  turf  we  lay,  while  at  our  feet 
The  cooling  rivulet  rippled  softly  sweet ; 
And  mused  on  holy  theme,  and  ancient  lore, 
Of  deeds,  and  days,  and  heroes  now  no  more ; 
Heard,  as  his  solemn  harp  Isaiah  swept, 
bung  woe  unto  the  wicked  land  —  and  wept ; 
Or,  fancy-led,  saw  Jeremiah  mourn 
In  solemn  sorrow  o'er  Judea's  urn.  , 

Then  to  another  shore  perhaps  would  rove, 
With  Plato  talk  in  his  Ilyssian  grove ; 
Or,  wandering  where  the  Thespian  palace  rose, 
Weep  once  again  o'er  fair  Jocasta's  woes. 

Sweet  then  to  us  was  that  romantic  band, 
The  ancient  legends  of  our  native  land : 
Chivalric  Britomart,  and  Una  fair, 
And  courteous  Constance,  doomed  to  dark  despair, 
By  turns  our  thoughts  engaged ;  and  oft  we  talked 
Of  tunes  when  monarch  superstition  stalked, 
And  when  the  blood-fraught  galiots  of  Rome 
Brought  the  grand  Druid  fabric  to  its  doom : 
While,  where  the  wood-hung  Menai's  waters  flow, 
The  hoary  harpers  poured  the  strain  of  woe. 

While  thus  employed,  to  us  how  sad  the  bell 
Which  summoned  us  to  school !   'T  was  Fancy's  kncl  1 
And,  sadly  sounding  on  the  sullen  ear, 
It  spoke  of  study  pale,  and  chilling  fear. 
Yet  even  then,  (for  oh!  what  chains  can  bind, 
What  powers  control,  the  energies  of  mind !) 


KIKKE    WHITE.  53 

E'en  then  we  soared  to  many  a  height  sublime, 
And  many  a  day-dream  charmed  the  lazy  time. 
At  evening  too,  how  pleasing  was  our  walk, 
Endeared  by  Friendship's  unrestrained  talk, 
When  to  the  upland  heights  we  bent  our  way, 
To  view  the  last  beam  of  departing  day ; 
How  calm  was  all  around !  no  playful  breeze 
Sigh'd  'mid  the  wavy  foliage  of  the  trees, 
But  all  was  still,  save  when,  with  drowsy  song, 
The  gray-fly  wound  his  sullen  horn  along ; 
And  save  when  heard  in  soft,  yet  merry  glee, 
The  distant  church  bells'  mellow  harmony ; 
The  silver  mirror  of  the  lucid  brook, 
That  'mid  the  tufted  broom  its  still  course  took ; 
The  rugged  arch,  that  clasped  its  silent  tides, 
With  moss  and  rank  weeds  hanging  down  its  sides ; 
The  craggy  rock,  that  jutted  on  the  sight ; 
The  shrieking  bat,  that  took  its  heavy  flight ; 
All,  all  was  pregnant  with  divine  delight. 
We  loved  to  watch  the  swallow  swimming  high, 
In  the  bright  azure  of  the  vaulted  sky ; 
Or  gaze  upon  the  clouds,  whose  colour'd  pride 
Was  scattered  thinly  o'er  the  welkin  wide, 
And  tinged  with  such  variety  of  shade, 
To  the  charmed  soul  sublimest  thoughts  conveyed. 
In  these  what  forms  romantic  did  we  trace, 
While  Fancy  led  us  o'er  the  realms  of  space ! 
Now  we  espied  the  Thunderer  in  his  car, 
Leading  the  embattled  seraphim  to  war, 


54  THE   POEMS    OF 

Then  stately  towers  descried,  sublimely  high, 
In  Gothic  grandeur  frowning  on  the  sky  — 
Or  saw,  wide  stretching  o'er  the  azure  height, 
A  ridge  of  glaciers  in  mural  white, 
Hugely  terrific.  —  But  those  times  are  o'er, 
And  the  fond  scene  can  charm  mine  eyes  no  more ; 
For  thou  art  gone,  and  I  am  left  below, 
Alone  to  struggle  through  this  world  of  woe. 

The  scene  is  o'er  —  still  seasons  onward  roll, 
And  each  revolve  conducts  me  toward  the  goal ; 
Yet  all  is  blank,  without  one  soft  relief, 
One  endless  continuity  of  grief; 
And  the  tired  soul,  now  led  to  thoughts  sublime, 
Looks  but  for  rest  beyond  the  bounds  of  time. 

Toil  on,  toil  on,  ye  busy  crowds,  that  pant 
For  hoards  of  wealth  which  ye  will  never  want : 
And  lost  to  all  but  gain,  with  ease  resign 
The  calms  of  peace  and  happiness  divine ! 
Far  other  cares  be  mine!  —  Men  little  crave 
In  this  short  journey  to  the  silent  grave  ; 
And  the  poor  peasant,  blessed  with  peace  and  health, 
I  envy  more  than  Croesus  with  his  wealth. 
Yet  grieve  not  I,  that  Fate  did  not  decree 
Paternal  acres  to  await  on  me ; 
She  gave  me  more,  she  placed  within  my  breast 
A  heart  with  little  pleased  —  with  little  blest : 
I  look  around  me,  where,  on  every  side, 
Extensive  manors  spread  in  wealthy  pride ; 
And  could  my  sight  be  borne  to  either  zone, 
I  should  not  find  one  foot  of  land  my  own. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  55 

But  whither  do  I  wander  ?  shall  the  muse, 
For  golden  baits,  her  simple  theme  refuse  ? 
Oh,  no !  but  while  the  weary  spirit  greets 
The  fading  scenes  of  childhood's  far  gone  sweets, 
It  catches  all  the  infant's  wandering  tongue, 
And  prattles  on  in  desultory  song. 
That  song  must  close  —  the  gloomy  mists  of  night 
Obscure  the  pale  stars'  visionary  light, 
And  ebon  darkness,  clad  in  vapoury  wet, 
Steals  on  the  welkin  in  primaeval  jet. 

The  song  must  close.  —  Once  more  my  adverse  lot 
Leads  me  reluctant  from  this  cherished  spot : 
Again  compels  to  plunge  in  busy  life, 
And  brave  the  hateful  turbulence  of  strife. 

Scenes  of  my  youth  —  ere  my  unwilh'ng  feet 
Are  turned  for  ever  from  this  loved  retreat, 
Ere  on  these  fields,  with  plenty  cover'd  o'er, 
My  eyes  are  closed  to  ope  on  them  no  more, 
Let  me  ejaculate,  to  feeling  due, 
One  long,  one  last  affectionate  adieu. 
Grant  that,  if  ever  Providence  should  please 
To  give  me  an  old  age  of  peace  and  ease, 
Grant  that,  in  these  sequestered  shades,  my  days 
May  wear  away  in  gradual  decays : 
And  oh !  ye  spirits,  who  unbodied  play, 
Unseen  upon  the  pinions  of  the  day, 
Kind  genii  of  my  native  fields  benign, 
Who  were .    . 


56  THE   POEMS    OP 


THE   CHRISTIAD 


BOOK  I. 
I. 

I  SING  the  Cross  !  —  Ye  white-robed  angel  choirs, 

Who  know  the  chords  of  harmony  to  sweep, 
Ye  who  o'er  holy  David's  varying  wires 

Were  wont,  of  old,  your  hovering  watch  to  keep, 
Oh,  now  descend !  and  with  your  harpings  deep, 
Pouring  sublime  the  full  symphonious  stream 

Of  music,  such  as  soothes  the  saint's  last  sleep, 
Awake  my  slumbering  spirit  from  its  dream, 
And  teach  me  how  to  exalt  the  high  mysterious 
theme. 

ii. 
Mourn !  Salem,  mourn !  low  lies  thine  humbled 

state, 

Thy  glittering  fanes  are  levelled  with  the  ground ! 
Fallen  is  thy  pride  !  —  Thine  halls  are  desolate  ! 
Where  erst  was  heard  the  timbrels'  sprightly 

sound, 

And  frolic  pleasures  tripped  the  nightly  round, 

There  breeds  the  wild  fox  lonely,  —  and  aghast 

Stands  the  mute  pilgrim  at  the  void  profound, 

Unbroke  by  noise,  save  when  the  hurrying  blast 

Sighs,  like  a  spirit,  deep  along  the  cheerless  waste. 


KIRKB    WHITE.  57 

ra.  • 

It  is  for  this,  proud  Solyma !  thy  towers 
Lie  crumbling  hi  the  dust ;  for  this  forlorn 

Thy  genius  wails  along  thy  desert  bowers, 
While  stern  Destruction  laughs,  as  if  in  scorn, 
That  thou  didst  dare  insult  God's  eldest  born ; 

And,  with  most  bitter  persecuting  ire, 

Pursued  his  footsteps  till  the  last  day-dawn 

Rose  on  his  fortunes  —  and  thou  saw'st  the  fire 
That  came  to  light  the  world,  in  one  great  flash  expire. 

IV. 

Oh !  for  a  pencil  dipped  in  living  light, 

To  paint  the  agonies  that  Jesus  bore ! 
Oh  !  for  the  long  lost  harp  of  Jesse's  might, 

To  hymn  the  Saviour's  praise  from  shore  to 
shore ; 

While  seraph  hosts  the  lofty  paean  pour, 
And  Heaven  enraptured  lists  the  loud  acclaim  ! 

May  a  frail  mortal  dare  the  theme  explore  ? 
May  he  to  human  ears  his  weak  song  frame  ? 
Oh !  may  he  dare  to  sing  Messiah's  glorious  name. 

v. 

Spirits  of  pity !  mild  crusaders,  come ! 

Buoyant  on  clouds  around  your  minstrel  float, 
And  give  him  eloquence  who  else  were  dumb, 

And  raise  to  feeling  and  to  fire  his  note  ! 

And  thou,  Urania !  who  dost  still  devote 
Thy  nights  and  days  to  God's  eternal  shrine, 

Whose  mild  eyes  'lumined  what  Isaiah  wrote, 


58  THE   POEMS    OF 

Throw  o'er  thy  Bard  that  solemn  stole  of  thine, 
And  clothe  him  for  the  fight  with  energy  divine. 

VI. 

When  from  the  temple's  lofty  summit  prone, 
Satan,  o'ercome,  fell  down ;  and  'throned  there, 

The  son  of  God  confessed  in  splendour  shone : 
Swift  as  the  glancing  sunbeam  cuts  the  air, 
Mad  with  defeat,  and  yelling  his  despair, 


Fled  the  stern  king  of  Hell — and  with  the  glare 
Of  gliding  meteors,  ominous  and  red, 
Shot  athwart  the  clouds  that  gathered  round  his  head. 

vn. 

Right  o'er  the  Euxine,  and  that  gulf  which  late 

The  rude  Massagetse  adored,  he  bent 
His  northering  course,  while  round,  in  dusky  state 

The  assembling  fiends  their  summoned  troops 
augment ; 

Clothed  in  dark  mists,  upon  their  way  they  went, 
While  as  they  pass'd  to  regions  more  severe, 

The  Lapland  sorcerer  swelled  with  loud  lament 
The  solitary  gale ;  and,  filled  with  fear, 
The  howling  dogs  bespoke  unholy  spirits  near. 

VIII. 

Where  the  North  Pole,  in  moody  solitude, 

Spreads  her  huge  tracks   and  frozen  wastes 
around, 

There  ice-rocks  piled  aloft,  in  order  rude, 
Form  a  gigantic  hall,  where  never  sound 


KIKKE    WHITE.  59 

Startled  dull  Silence'  ear,  save  when  profound 
The  smoke-frost  muttered:  there  drear  Cold  for 
aye  [mound, 

Thrones    him,  —  and,  fixed  on   his    primaeval 
Ruin,  the  giant,  sits ;  while  stern  Dismay 
Stalks  like  some  woe-struck  man  along  the  desert 
way. 

IX. 

In  that  drear  spot,  grim  Desolation's  lair, 

No  sweet  remain  of  life  encheers  the  sight ; 
The  dancing  heart's  blood  in  an  instant  there 
Would  freeze  to  marble.  —  Mingling  day  and 
night  [light) 

(Sweet  interchange,  which  makes  our  labours 
Are  there  unknown ;  while  in  the  summer  skies 
The   sun  rolls  ceaseless  round  his  heavenly 

height, 

Nor  ever  sets  till  from  the  scene  he  flies,       [rise. 
And  leaves  the  long  bleak  night  of  half  the  year  to 

x. 

'T  was  there,  yet  shuddering  from  the  burning  lake, 
Satan  had  fixed  their  next  consistory, 

When  parting  last  he  fondly  hoped  to  shake 
Messiah's  constancy,  —  and  thus  to  free 
The  powers  of  darkness  from  the  dread  decree 

Of  bondage  brought  by  him,  and  circumvent 
The  unerring  ways  of  Him  whose  eye  can  see 

The  womb  of  Time,  and,  in  its  embryo  pent, 
Discern  the  colours  clear  of  every  dark  event 


60  THE  POEMS    OP 

XI. 

Here  the  stern  monarch  stayed  his  rapid  flight, 

And  his  thick  hosts,  as  with  a  jetty  pall, 
Hovering  obscured  the  north  star's  peaceful  light, 
Waiting  on  wing  their  haughty  chieftain's  call. 
He,  meanwhile,  downward,  with  a  sullen  fall, 
Dropped  on  the  echoing  ice.     Instant  the  sound 
Of  their  broad  vans  was  hushed,  and  o'er  the 

hall, 

Vast  and  obscure,  the  gloomy  cohorts  bound, 
Till,  wedged  in  ranks,  the  seat  of  Satan  they  sur- 
round. 

XII. 

High  on  a  solium  of  the  solid  wave, 

Pranked  with  rude  shapes  by  the  fantastic  frost, 
He  stood  in  silence  ;  —  now  keen  thoughts  engrave 

Dark  figures  on  his  front ;  and,  tempest-tossed, 

He  fears  to  say  that  every  hope  is  lost. 
Meanwhile  the  multitude  as  death  are  mute ; 

So,  ere  the  tempest  on  Malacca's  coast, 
Sweet  Quiet,  gently  touching  her  soft  lute, 
Sings  to  the  whispering  waves  the  prelude  to  dispute. 

XIII. 

At  length  collected,  o'er  the  dark  divan 

The  arch  fiend  glanced  as  by  the  boreal  blaze 

Their  downcast  brows  were  seen,  and  thus  began 
His   fierce   harangue :  —  "  Spirits !   our  better 

days 
Are  now  elapsed ;  Moloch  and  Belial's  praise 


KIBKE    WHITE.  61 

Shall  sound  no  more  in  groves  by  myriads  trod. 
Lo !  the  light  breaks ;  —  the  astonished  nations 


gaze 


For  us  is  lifted  high  the  avenging  rod ! 
For,  spirits !  this  is  He,  —  this  is  the  Son  of  God ! 

xrv. 
"  What  then ! — shall  Satan's  spirit  crouch  to  fear  ? 

Shall  he  who  shook  the  pillars  of  God's  reign 
Drop  from  his  unnerved  arm  the  hostile  spear  ? 
Madness !  The  very  thought  would  make  me 

fain 

To  tear  the  spangles   from  yon  gaudy  plain, 
And  hurl  them  at  their  Maker !  —  Fixed  as  Fate 
I  am  his  foe !  —  Yea,  though  his  pride  should 

deign 

To  soothe  mine  ire  with  half  his  regal  state, 
Still  would  I  burn  with  fixed  unalterable  hate. 

xv. 

"  Now  hear  the  issue  of  my  cursed  emprize. 

When  from  our  last  sad  synod  I  took  flight, 
Buoyed  with  false  hopes,  in  some  deep-laid  dis- 
guise, 

To  tempt  this  vaunted  Holy  One  to  write 

His  own  self-condemnation ;  in  the  plight 
Of  aged  man  in  the  lone  wilderness, 

Gathering  a  few  stray  sticks,  I  met  his  sight ; 
And,  leaning  on  my  staff,  seemed  much  to  guess 
What  cause  could  mortal  bring  to  that  forlorn  recess. 


62  THE   POEMS    OP 

XVI. 

"  Then  thus  in  homely  guise  I  featly  framed 

My  lowly  speech :  —  "  Good  Sir,  what  leads  this 

way  [blamed 

Your  wandering  steps?  must  hapless  chance  be 

That  you  so  far  from  haunt  of  mortals  stray  ? 

Here  have  I  dwelt  for  many  a  lingering  day, 
Nor  trace  of  man  have  seen :  but  how !  methought 

Thou  wert  the  youth  on  whom  God's  holy  ray 
I  saw  descend  in  Jordan,  when  John  taught 
That  he  to  fallen  man  the  saving  promise  brought.' 

XVII. 

" '  I  am  that  man,'  said  Jesus, '  I  am  He.        [feet 
But  truce  to  questions  —  Canst  thou  point  my 

To  some  low  hut,  if  haply  such  there  be 
In  this  wild  labyrinth,  where  I  may  meet 
With  homely  greeting,  and  may  sit  and  eat ; 

For  forty  days  I  have  tarried  fasting  here, 
Hid  in  the  dark  glens  of  this  lone  retreat, 

And  now  I  hunger ;  and  my  fainting  ear     [near.' 
Longs  much  to  greet  the  sound  of  fountains  gushing 

XVIII. 

"  Then  thus  I  answered  wily :  —  'If,  indeed, 
Son  of  our  God  thou  be'st,  what  need  to  seek 

For  food  from  men  ?  —  Lo !  on  these  flint  stones 

feed, 
Bid  them  be  bread !    Open  thy  lips  and  speak, 


KIBKE    WHITE.  63 

And  living  rills  from  yon  parched  rock  will 

break.' 
Instant  as  I  had  spoke,  his  piercing  eye 

Fixed  on  my  face ;  — the  blood  forsook  my  cheek, 
I  could  not  bear  his  gaze ;  — my  mask  slipped  by  ; 
I  would  have  shunned  his  look,  but  had  not  power  to 
fly. 

XIX. 

"  Then  he  rebuked  me  with  the  holy  word  — 
Accursed  sounds  ;  but  now  my  native  pride 

Return'd,  and  by  no  foolish  qualm  deterred, 
I  bore  him  from  the  mountain's  woody  side 
Up  to  the  summit,  where  extending  wide 

Kingdoms  and  cities,  palaces  and  fanes, 

Bright  sparkling  in  the  sunbeams,  were  descried, 

And  in  gay  dance,  amid  luxuriant  plains, 
Tripp'd  to  the  jocund  reed  the  emasculated  swains. 

XX. 

" '  Behold,'  I  cried,  '  these  glories !   scenes  divine  ! 

Thou  whose  sad  prime  in  pining  want  decays ; 
And  these,  0  rapture !  these  shall  all  be  thine, 

If  thou  wilt  give  to  me,  not  God,  the  praise, 
x      Hath  he  not  given  to  indigence  thy  days  ? 
Is  not  thy  portion  peril  here  and  pain  ? 

Oh!   leave    his    temples,   shun  his  wounding 


ways 


Seize  the  tiara !  these  mean  weeds  disdain, 
Kneel,  kneel,   thou  man  of  woe,  and  peace  and 
splendour  gain.' 


64  THE  POEMS  or 

XXI. 

"  *  Is  it  not  written,'  sternly  he  replied, 
'  Tempt  not  the  Lord  thy  God ! '     Frowning  he 

spake, 
And  instant  sounds,  as  of  the  ocean  tide, 

Rose,  and  the  whirlwind  from  its  prison  brake, 
And  caught  me  up  aloft,  till  in  one  flake 
The  sidelong  volley  met  my  swift  career, 

And  smote  me  earthward. — Jove  himself  might 

quake 

At  such  a  fall ;  my  sinews  cracked,  and  near, 
Obscure  and  dizzy  sounds  seem'd  ringing  in  mine  ear. 

xxn. 
"  Senseless  and  stunned  I  lay  ;  till  casting  round 

My  half  unconscious  gaze,  I  saw  the  foe 
Borne  on  a  car  of  roses  to  the  ground, 
By  volant  angels  ;  and  as  sailing  slow 
He  sunk  the  hoary  battlement  below, 
While  on  the  tall  spire  slept  the  slant  sunbeam, 
Sweet  on  the  enamoured  zephyr  was  the  flow 
Of  heavenly  instruments.     Such  strains  oft  seem, 
On  star-light  hill,  to  soothe  the  Syrian  shepherd's 
dream. 

xxm. 
"  I  saw,  blaspheming.   Hate  renewed  my  strength ; 

I  smote  the  ether  with  my  iron  whig, 
And  left  the  accursed  scene.  —  Arrived  at  length 
In  these  drear  halls,  to  ye,  my  peers  !  I  bring 
The  tidings  of  defeat.     Hell's  haughty  king 


KIRKE    WHITE.  65 

Thrice  vanquished,  baffled,  smitten,  and  dismayed ! 

0  shame !     Is  this  the  hero  who  could  fling 
Defiance  at  his  Maker,  while  arrayed, 

High  o'er  the  walls   of  light,  rebellion's   banners 
play'd! 

XXIV. 

"  Yet  shall  not  Heaven's  bland  minions  triumph 

long; 

Hell  yet  shall  have  revenge.     O  glorious  sight, 
Prophetic  visions  on  my  fancy  throng, 

1  see  wild  Agony's  lean  finger  write 

Sad  figures  on  his  forehead !  —  Keenly  bright 
Revenge's  flambeau  burns !     Now  in  his  eyes 

Stand  the  hot  tears,  —  immantled  in  the  night, 
Lo  !  he  retires  to  mourn  !  —  I  hear  his  cries ! 
He  faints  —  he  falls  —  and  lo ! — 't  is  true,  ye  powers, 
he  dies." 

XXV. 

Thus  spake  the  chieftain,  —  and  as  if  he  viewed 
The  scene  he  pictured,  with  his  foot  advanced 
And  chest  inflated,  motionless  he  stood, 

While  under  his  uplifted  shield  he  glanced, 
With  straining  eyeball  fixed,  like  one  entranced, 
On  viewless  air ;  —  thither  the  dark  platoon 
Gazed  wondering,  nothing  seen,  save  when  there 

danced 

The  northern  flash,  or  fiend  late  fled  from  noon, 
Darkened  the  disk  of  the  descending  moon. 
5 


66  THE   POEMS   OF 

XXVI. 

Silence  crept    stilly  through  the  ranks.  —  The 

breeze 

Spake  most  distinctly.     As  the  sailor  stands, 
When  all  the  midnight  gasping  from  the  seas   , 
Break  boding  sobs,  and  to  his  sight  expands 
High  on  the  shrouds  the  spirit  that  commands 
The  ocean-farer's  life ;  so  stiff —  so  sear 

Stood  each  dark  power ;  —  while  through  their 

numerous  bands 

Beat  not  one  heart,  and  mingling  hope  and  fear 
Now  told  them  all  was  lost,  now  bade  revenge  appear. 

XXVII. 

One  there  was  there,  whose  loud  defying  tongue 
Nor  hope  nor  fear  had  silenced,  but  the  swell 

Of  over-boiling  malice.     Utterance  long 

His  passion  mocked,  and  long  he  strove  to  tell 
His  labouring  ire ;  still  syllable  none  fell 

From  his  pale  quivering  lip,  but  died  away 
For  very  fury ;  from  each  hollow  cell 

Half  sprang  his  eyes,  that  cast  a  flamy  ray. 
And 

XXVIII. 

"This  comes,"  at  length  burst  from  the  furious 
chief, 

"  This  comes  of  distant  counsels !  Here  behold 
The  fruits  of  wily  cunning !  the  relief 

Which  coward  policy  would  fain  unfold, 


KIRKE    WHITE.  67 

To  soothe  the  powers  that  warred  with  Heaven 

of  old! 
0  wise !  0  potent !  0  sagacious  snare ! 

And  lo  !  our  prince  —  the  mighty  and  the  bold, 
There  stands  he,  spell-struck,  gaping  at  the  air, 
While  Heaven  subverts  his  reign,  and  plants  her 
standard  there." 

XXIX. 

Here,  as  recovered,  Satan  fix'd  his  eye 

Full  on  the  speaker ;  dark  it  was  and  stern ; 
He  wrapped  his  black  vest  round  him  gloomily, 
And  stood  like  one  whom  weightiest  thoughts 

concern. 

Him  Moloch  marked,  and  strove  again  to  turn 
His  soul  to  rage.     "  Behold,  behold,"  he  cried, 
"The   lord  of  Hell,  who  made  these  legions 

spurn 

Almighty  rule  —  behold  he  lays  aside          [fied." 
The  spear  of  just  revenge,  and  shrinks,  by  man  de- 

XXX. 

Thus  ended  Moloch,  and  his  burning  tongue 
Hung  quivering,  as  if  [mad]  to  quench  its  heat 

In  slaughter.     So,  his  native  wilds  among, 
The  famished  tiger  pants,  when,  near  his  seat, 
Pressed  on  the  sands,  he  marks  the  traveller's 
feet. 

Instant  low  murmurs  rose,  and  many  a  sword 


68  THE   POEMS    OF 

Had  from  its  scabbard  sprung ;  but  toward  the 

seat 

Of  the  arch-fiend  all  turned  with  one  accord, 
As  loud  he  thus  harangued  the  sanguinary  horde. 


"  Ye  powers  of  Hell,  I  am  no  coward.  I  proved 
this  of  old :  who  led  your  forces  against  the  armies 
of  Jehovah?  Who  coped  with  Ithuriel  and  the 
thunders  of  the  Almighty?  Who,  when  stunned 
and  confused  ye  lay  on  the  burning  lake,  who  first 
awoke,  and  collected  your  scattered  powers  ?  Lastly, 
who  led  you  across  the  unfathomable  abyss  to  this 
delightful  world,  and  established  that  reign  here 
which  now  totters  to  its  base?  How,  therefore, 
dares  yon  treacherous  fiend  to  cast  a  stain  on  Satan's 
bravery  ?  he  who  preys  only  on  the  defenceless  — 
who  sucks  the  blood  of  infants,  and  delights  only  in 
acts  of  ignoble  cruelty  and  unequal  contention. 
Away  with  the  boaster  who  never  joins  in  action, 
but,  like  a  cormorant,  hovers  over  the  field,  to  feed 
upon  the  wounded,  and  overwhelm  the  dying.  True 
bravery  is  as  remote  from  rashness  as  from  hesita- 
tion ;  let  us  counsel  coolly,  but  let  us  execute  our 
counselled  purposes  determinately.  In  power  we 
have  learned,  by  that  experiment  which  lost  us 
Heaven,  that  we  are  inferior  to  the  Thunder-bearer : 
—  In  subtlety,  hi  subtlety  alone  we  are  his  equals. 
Open  war  is  impossible. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  69 

u  Thus  we  shall  pierce  our  conqueror  through  the 

race 

Which  as  himself  he  loves  ;  thus  if  we  fall, 
We  fall  not  with  the  anguish,  the  disgrace, 
Of  falling  unrevenged.     The  stirring  call 
Of  vengeance  rings  within  me  !    Warriors  all, 
The  word  is  vengeance,  and  the  spur  despair. 
Away  with  coward  wiles !  —  Death's  coal-black 

pall 

Be  now  our  standard !  —  Be  our  torch  the  glare 
Of  cities  fired !  our  fifes,  the  shrieks  that  fill  the  air ! " 

Him  answering  rose  Mecashphim,  who  of  old, 
Far  in  the  silence  of  Chaldea's  groves, 

Was  worshipp'd,  God  of  Fire,  with  charms  untold 
And  mystery.     His  wandering  spirit  roves, 
Now  vainly  searching  for  the  flame  it  loves ; 

And  sits  and  mourns  like  some  white-robed  sire. 
Where  stood  his  temple,  and  where  fragrant 
cloves 

And  cinnamon  unheaped  the  sacred  pyre, 
And  nightly  magi  watched  the  everlasting  fire. 

He  waved  his  robe  of  flame,  he  crossed  his  breast, 
And  sighing  —  his  papyrus  scarf  surveyed, 

Woven  with  dark  characters,  then  thus  addressed 
The  troubled  council. 


70  THE    POEMS    OF 

I. 

Thus  far  have  I  pursued  my  solemn  theme 

With  self-rewarding  toil,  thus  far  have  sung 
Of  godlike  deeds,  far  loftier  than  beseem 

The  lyre  which  I  in  early  days  have  strung : 
And  now  my  spirit's  faint,  and  I  have  hung 
The  shell,  that  solaced  me  in  saddest  hour, 

On  the  dark  cypress !   and  the  strings  which 

rung 

With  Jesus'  praise,  their  harpings  now  are  o'er, 
Or,  when  the  breeze  comes  by,  moan  and  are  heard 
no  more. 

ii. 

And  must  the  harp  of  Judah  sleep  again  ? 

Shall  I  no  more  reanimate  the  lay  ? 
Oh  !  Thou  who  visitest  the  son's  of  men, 

Thou  who  dost  listen  when  the  humble  pray, 

One  little  space  prolong  my  mournful  day ! 
One  little  lapse  suspend  Thy  last  decree  ! 

I  am  a  youthful  traveller  in  the  way, 
And  this  slight  boon  would  consecrate  to  Thee, 
Ere  I  with  Death  shake  hands,  and  smile  that  I  am 
free. 


These  last  two  stanzas  were  discovered  by  Southey  writ- 
ten on  the  leaf  of  a  different  book,  and  apparently  long  after 
the  first  canto. 


KIKKE    WHITE.  71 


LINES  WEITTEN  ON  A   SURVEY   OF  THE 
HEAVENS, 

IK  THE  MORNING  BEFORE  DAYBREAK. 

YE  many  twinkling  stars,  who  yet  do  hold 
Your  brilliant  places  in  the  sable  vault 
Of  night's  dominions  !  —  Planets,  and  central  orbs 
Of  other  systems  !  —  big  as  the  burning  sun 
Which  lights  this  nether  globe,  —  yet  to  our  eye 
Small  as  the  glowworm's  lamp  !  —  To  you  I  raise 
My  lowly  orisons,  while,  all  bewildered, 
My  vision  strays  o'er  your  ethereal  hosts ; 
Too  vast,  too  boundless  for  our  narrow  mind, 
"Warped  with  low  prejudices,  to  unfold, 
And  sagely  comprehend.     Thence  higher  soaring, 
Through  ye  I  raise  my  solemn  thoughts  to  Hun, 
The  mighty  Founder  of  this  wondrous  maze, 
The  great  Creator !  Him !  who  now  sublime, 
Wrapt  in  the  solitary  amplitude 
Of  boundless  space,  above  the  rolling  spheres 
Sits  on  his  silent  throne  and  meditates. 

The  angelic  hosts,  in  their  inferior  heaven, 
Hymn  to  the  golden  harps  his  praise  sublime, 
Repeating  loud,  "  The  Lord  our  God  is  great," 
In  varied  harmonies.  —  The  glorious  sounds 
Roll  o'er  the  air  serene  —  The  JEoi\ian  spheres, 
Harping  along  their  viewless  boundaries, 


72  THE   POEMS    OF 

Catch  the  full  note,  and  cry,  "  The  Lord  is  great," 
Responding  to  the  Seraphim.     O'er  all 
From  orb  to  orb,  to  the  remotest  verge 
Of  the  created  world,  the  sound  is  borne, 
Till  the  whole  universe  is  full  of  Him. 

Oh !  'tis  this  heavenly  harmony  which  now 
In  fancy  strikes  upon  my  listening  ear, 
And  thrills  my  inmost  soul.     It  bids  me  smile 
On  the  vain  world,  and  all  its  bustling  cares, 
And  gives  a  shadowy  glimpse  of  future  bliss. 

Oh !  what  is  man,  when  at  ambition's  height ! 
What  even  are  kings,  when  balanced  in  the  scale 
Of  these  stupendous  worlds !     Almighty  God ! 
Thou,  the  dread  author  of  these  wondrous  works ! 
Say,  canst  thou  cast  on  me,  poor  passing  worm, 
One  look  of  kind  benevolence  ?  —  Thou  canst : 
For  Thou  art  full  of  universal  love, 
And  in  thy  boundless  goodness  wilt  impart 
Thy  beams  as  well  to  me  as  to  the  proud, 
The  pageant  insects  of  a  glittering  hour. 

Oh !  when  reflecting  on  these  truths  sublime, 
How  insignificant  do  all  the  joys, 
The  gauds,  and  honours  of  the  world  appear ! 
How  vain  ambition !     Why  has  my  wakeful  lamp 
Outwatched  the  slow-paced  night!  —  Why  on  the 

page, 

The  schoolman's  labour'd  page,  have  I  employed 
The  hours  devoted  by  the  world  to  rest, 
And  needful  to  recruit  exhausted  nature  ? 
Say,  can  the  voice  of  narrow  Fame  repay 


KIKKE    WHITE.  73 

The  loss  of  health  ?  or  can  the  hope  of  glory 
Lend  a  i\ew  throb  unto  my  languid  heart, 
Cool,  even  now,  my  feverish  aching  brow, 
Relume  the  fires  of  this  deep  sunken  eye, 
Or  paint  new  colours  on  this  pallid  cheek  ? 

Say,  foolish  one  —  can  that  unbodied  fame, 
For  which  thou  barterest  health  and  happiness, 
Say,  can  it  soothe  the  slumbers  of  the  grave  ? 
Give  a  new  zest  to  bliss,  or  chase  the  pangs 
Of  everlasting  punishment  condign  ? 
Alas !  how  vain  are  mortal  man's  desires ! 
How  fruitless  his  pursuits !     Eternal  God ! 
Guide  thou  my  footsteps  in  the  way  of  truth, 
And  oh !  assist  me  so  to  live  on  earth, 
That  I  may  die  in  peace,  and  claim  a  place 
In  thy  high  dwelling.  —  All  but  this  is  folly, 
The  vain  illusions  of  deceitful  life. 


LINES  SUPPOSED  TO  BE  SPOKEN  BY  A  LOVER 
AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  HIS  MISTRESS. 

OCCASIONED   BY  A   SITUATION  IN  A  ROMANCE. 

MARY,  the  moon  is  sleeping  on  thy  grave, 
And  on  the  turf  thy  lover  sad  is  kneeling, 
The  big  tear  in  his  eye.  —  Mary,  awake, 
From  thy  dark  house  arise,  and  bless  his  sight 
On  the  pale  moonbeam  gliding.     Soft,  and  low, 
Pour  on  the  silver  ear  of  night  thy  tale, 


74  THE   POEMS    OP 

Thy  whispered  tale  of  comfort  and  of  love, 

To  soothe  thy  Edward's  lorn,  distracted  soul, 

And  cheer  his  breaking  heart.  —  Come,  as  thou 

didst, 

When  o'er  the  barren  moors  the  night  wind  howled, 
And  the  deep  thunders  shook  the  ebon  throne 
Of  the  startled  night !  —  O !  then,  as  lone  reclining, 
I  listened  sadly  to  the  dismal  storm, 
Thou  on  the  lambent  lightnings  wild  careering 
Didst  strike  my  moody  eye ;  —  dead  pale  thou  wert, 
Yet  passing  lovely.  —  Thou  didst  smile  upon  me, 
And  oh !  thy  voice  it  rose  so  musical, 
Betwixt  the  hollow  pauses  of  the  storm, 
That  at  the  sound  the  winds  forgot  to  rave, 
And  the  stern  demon  of  the  tempest,  charmed, 
Sunk  on  his  rocking  throne  to  still  repose, 
Lock'd  in  the  arms  of  silence. 

Spirit  of  her ! 

My  only  love !   0 !  now  again  arise, 
And  let  once  more  thine  aery  accents  fall 
Soft  on  my  listening  ear.     The  night  is  calm, 
The  gloomy  willows  wave  in  sinking  cadence 
With  the  stream  that  sweeps  below.    Divinely  swell- 
On  the  still  air,  the  distant  waterfall  [ing 
Mingles  its  melody ;  —  and,  high  above, 
The  pensive  empress  of  the  solemn  night, 
Fitful,  emerging  from  the  rapid  clouds, 
Shows  her  chaste  face  in  the  meridian  sky. 
No  wicked  elves  upon  the  Warlock-knoll 
Dare  now  assemble  at  their  mystic  revels. 


KIRKE   WHITE.  75 

It  is  a  night  when,  from  their  primrose  beds, 
The  gentle  ghosts  of  injured  innocents 
Are  known  to  rise  and  wander  on  the  breeze, 
Or  take  their  stand  by  the  oppressor's  couch, 
And  strike  grim  terror  to  his  guilty  soul. 
The  spirit  of  my  love  might  now  awake, 
And  hold  its  customed  converse. 

Mary,  lo ! 

Thy  Edward  kneels  upon  thy  verdant  grave, 
And  calls  upon  thy  name.     The  breeze  that  blows 
On  his  wan  cheek  will  soon  sweep  over  him, 
In  solemn  music  a  funereal  dirge, 
Wild  and  most  sorrowful.     His  cheek  is  pale, 
The  worm  that  preyed  upon  thy  youthful  bloom 
It  cankered  green  on  his.     Now  lost  he  stands, 
The  ghost  of  what  he  was,  and  the  cold  dew, 
"Which  bathes  his  aching  temples,  gives  sure  omen 
Of  speedy  dissolution.     Mary,  soon 
Thy  love  will  lay  his  pallid  cheek  to  thine, 
And  sweetly  will  he  sleep  with  thee  in  death. 


MY    STUDY. 

A  LETTER  IN  HUDIBRASTIC  VERSE. 

You  bid  me,  Ned,  describe  the  place 
Where  I,  one  of  the  rhyming  race, 
Pursue  my  studies  con  amore, 
And  wanton  with  the  muse  in  glory. 


V6  THE   POEMS    OF 

Well,  figure  to  your  senses  straight, 
Upon  the  house's  topmost  height, 
A  closet  just  six  feet  by  four, 
With  whitewashed  walls  and  plaster  floor. 
So  noble  large,  't  is  scarcely  able 
To  admit  a  single  chair  and  table : 
And  (lest  the  muse  should  die  with  cold) 
A  smoky  grate  my  fire  to  hold : 
So  wondrous  small,  't  would  much  it  pose 
To  melt  the  icedrop  on  one's  nose ; 
And  yet  so  big,  it  covers  o'er 
Full  half  the  spacious  room  and  more. 

A  window  vainly  stuffed  about, 
To  keep  November's  breezes  out, 
So  crazy,  that  the  panes  proclaim 
That  soon  they  mean  to  leave  the  frame. 

My  furniture  I  sure  may  crack  — 
A  broken  chair  without  a  back ; 
A  table  wanting  just  two  legs, 
One  end  sustained  by  wooden  pegs ; 
A  desk  —  of  that  I  am  not  fervent, 
The  work  of,  Sir,  your  humble  servant ; 
(Who,  though  I  say 't,  am  no  such  fumbler ;) 
A  glass  decanter  and  a  tumbler, 
From  which  my  night-parched  throat  I  lave, 
Luxurious,  with  the  limpid  wave. 
A  chest  of  drawers,  in  antique  sections, 
And  saw'd  by  me  in  all  directions ; 
So  small,  Sir,  that  whoever  views  'em 
Swears  nothing  but  a  doll  could  use  'em. 


EIKKE   WHITE.  77 

To  these,  if  you  will  add  a  store 

Of  oddities  upon  the  floor, 

A  pair  of  globes,  electric  balls, 

Scales,  quadrants,  prisms,  and  cobbler's  awls, 

And  crowds  of  books,  on  rotten  shelves, 

Octavos,  folios,  quartos,  twelves ; 

I  think,  dear  Ned,  you  curious  dog, 

You  '11  have  my  earthly  catalogue. 

But  stay,  —  I  nearly  had  left  out 

My  bellows  destitute  of  snout ; 

And  on  the  walls, — Good  heavens !  why  there 

I  Ve  such  a  load  of  precious  ware, 

Of  heads,  and  coins,  and  silver  medals, 

And  organ  works,  and  broken  pedals ; 

(For  I  was  once  a-building  music, 

Though  soon  of  that  employ  I  grew  sick)  ; 

And  skeletons  of  laws  which  shoot 

All  out  of  one  primordial  root ; 

That  you,  at  such  a  sight,  would  swear 

Confusion's  self  had  settled  there. 

There  stands,  just  by  a  broken  sphere, 

A  Cicero  without  an  ear, 

A  neck,  on  which,  by  logic  good, 

I  know  for  sure  a  head  once  stood ; 

But  who  it  was  the  able  master 

Had  moulded  in  the  mimic  plaster, 

Whether  't  was  Pope,  or  Coke,  or  Burn, 

I  never  yet  could  justly  learn : 

But  knowing  well,  that  any  head 

Is  made  to  answer  for  the  dead, 


78  THE   POEMS    OF 

(And  sculptors  first  their  faces  frame, 

And  after  pitch  upon  a  name, 

Nor  think  it  aught  of  a  misnomer 

To  christen  Chaucer's  busto  Homer,        [know, 

Because  they  both  have  beards,  which,  you 

Will  mark  them  well  from  Joan,  and  Juno,) 

For  some  great  man,  I  could  not  tell 

But  Neck  might  answer  just  as  well, 

So  perch'd  it  up,  all  in  a  row 

With  Chatham  and  with  Cicero. 

Then  all  around,  in  just  degree, 
A  range  of  portraits  you  may  see, 
Of  mighty  men  and  eke  of  women, 
Who  are  no  whit  inferior  to  men. 

With  these  fair  dames,  and  heroes  round, 
I  call  my  garret  classic  ground. 
For  though  confined,  't  will  well  contain 
The  ideal  flights  of  Madam  Brain. 
No  dungeon's  walls,  no  cell  confined 
Can  cramp  the  energies  of  mind ! 
Thus,  though  my  heart  may  seem  so  small, 
I  've  friends,  and  't  will  contain  them  all ; 
And  should  it  e'er  become  so  cold 
That  these  it  will  no  longer  hold, 
No  more  may  Heaven  her  blessings  give, 
I  shall  not  then  be  fit  to  live. 


KIRKE   WHITE.  79 


DESCRIPTION  OF  A  SUMMER'S  EVE. 

DOWN  the  sultry  arc  of  day 
The  burning  wheels  have  urged  their  way ; 
And  eve  along  the  western  skies 
Sheds  her  intermingling  dyes. 
Down  the  deep,  the  miry  lane, 
Creaking  comes  the  empty  wain, 
And  driver  on  the  shaft-horse  sits, 
Whistling  now  and  then  by  fits : 
And  oft,  with  his  accustom'd  call, 
Urging  on  the  sluggish  Ball. 
The  barn  is  still,  the  master 's  gone, 
And  thresher  puts  his  jacket  on, 
While  Dick,  upon  the  ladder  tall, 
Nails  the  dead  kite  to  the  wall. 
Here  comes  shepherd  Jack  at  last, 
He  has  penned  the  sheepcote  fast, 
For  't  was  but  two  nights  before, 
A  lamb  was  eaten  on  the  moor : 
His  empty  wallet  Rover  carries, 
Nor  for  Jack,  when  near  home,  tarries. 
With  lolling  tongue  he  runs  to  try 
If  the  horse-trough  be  not  dry. 
The  milk  is  settled  in  the  pans, 
And  supper  messes  in  the  cans ; 
In  the  hovel  carts  are  wheeled, 
And  both  the  colts  are  drove  a-field ; 


80  THE   POEM8    OP 

The  horses  are  all  bedded  up, 
And  the  ewe  is  with  the  tup. 
The  snare  for  Mister  Fox  is  set, 
The  leaven  laid,  the  thatching  wet, 
And  Bess  has  slinked  away  to  talk 
With  Roger  in  the  holly  walk. 

Now,  on  the  settle  all,  but  Bess, 
Are  .set  to  eat  their  supper  mess ; 
And  little  Tom  and  roguish  Kate 
Are  swinging  on  the  meadow  gate. 
Now  they  chat  of  various  things, 
Of  taxes,  ministers,  and  kings, 
Or  else  tell  all  the  village  news, 
How  madam  did  the  squire'  refuse  ; 
How  parson  on  his  tithes  was  bent, 
And  landlord  oft  distrained  for  rent. 
Thus  do  they  talk,  till  in  the  sky 
The  pale-eyed  moon  is  mounted  high, 
And  from  the  alehouse  drunken  Ned 
Had  reel'd  —  then  hasten  all  to  bed. 
The  mistress  sees  that  lazy  Kate 
The  happing  coal  on  kitchen  grate 
Has  laid  —  while  master  goes  throughout, 
Sees  shutters  fast,  the  mastiff  out, 
The  candles  safe,  the  hearths  all  clear, 
And  nought  from  thieves  or  fire  to  fear ; 
Then  both  to  bed  together  creep, 
And  join  the  general  troop  of  sleep. 


KIKKE    WHITE.  81 


LINES, 

Written  impromptu,  on  reading  the  following  passage  in  Mr. 
Capel  Lofft's  beautiful  and  interesting  Preface  to  Nathaniel 
Bloomfleld's  Poems,  just  published :  —  "It  has  a  mixture  of 
the  sportive,  which  deepens  the  impression  of  its  melancholy 
close.  I  could  have  wished,  as  I  have  said  in  a  short  note, 
the  conclusion  had  been  otherwise.  The  sours  of  life  less 
offend  my  taste  than  its  sweets  delight  it." 

Go  to  the  raging  sea,  and  say,  "  Be  still ! " 
Bid  the  wild  lawless  winds  obey  thy  will ; 
Preach  to  the  storm,  and  reason  with  Despair, 
But  tell  not  Misery's  son  that  life  is  fair. 

Thou,  who  in  Plenty's  lavish  lap  hast  roll'd, 
And  every  year  with  new  delight  hast  told, 
Thou,  who,  recumbent  on  the  lacquered  barge, 
Hast  dropt  down  joy's  gay  stream  of  pleasant  marge, 
Thou  mayst  extol  life's  calm  untroubled  sea, 
The  storms  of  misery  never  burst  on  thee. 

Go  to  the  mat,  where  squalid  Want  reclines, 
Go  to  the  shade  obscure,  where  merit  pines ; 
Abide  with  him  whom  Penury's  charms  control, 
And  bind  the  rising  yearnings  of  his  soul, 
Survey  his  sleepless  couch,  and,  standing  there, 
Tell  the  poor  pallid  wretch  that  life  is  fair ! 

Press  thou  the  lonely  pillow  of  his  head, 
And  ask  why  sleep  his  languid  eyes  has  fled ; 
6 


82  THE   POEMS    OF 

Mark  his  dewed  temples,  and  his  half  shut  eye, 
His  trembling  nostrils,  and  his  deep  drawn  sigh, 
His  muttering  mouth  contorted  with  despair, 
And  ask  if  Genius  could  inhabit  there. 

Oh,  yes !  that  sunken  eye  with  fire  once  gleamed, 
And  rays  of  light  from  its  full  circlet  streamed : 
But  now  Neglect  has  stung  him  to  the  core, 
And  Hope's  wild  raptures  thrill  his  breast  no  more  ; 
Domestic  Anguish  winds  his  vitals  round, 
And  added  Grief  compels  him  to  the  ground. 
Lo !  o'er  his  manly  form,  decayed  and  wan, 
The  shades  of  death  with  gradual  steps  steal  on ; 
And  the  pale  mother,  pining  to  decay, 
Weeps  for  her  boy  her  wretched  life  away. 

Go,  child  of  Fortune !  to  his  early  grave, 
Where  o'er  his  head  obscure  the  rank  weeds  wave ; 
Behold  the  heart-wrung  parent  lay  her  head 
On  the  cold  turf,  and  ask  to  share  his  bed. 
Go,  child  of  Fortune,  take  thy  lesson  there, 
And  tell  us  then  that  life  is  wondrous  fair ! 

Yet,  Lofft,  on  thee,  whose  hand  is  still  stretched 

forth, 

To  encourage  genius,  and  to  foster  worth ; 
On  thee,  the  unhappy's  firm,  unfailing  friend, 
'T  is  just  that  every  blessing  should  descend ; 
'T  is  just  that  life  to  thee  should  only  show 
Her  fairer  side  but  little  mixed  with  woe. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  83 


WRITTEN  IN  THE  PROSPECT  OF  DEATH. 

SAD  solitary  Thought,  who  keep'st  thy  vigils, 

Thy  solemn  vigils,  in  the  sick  man's  mind ; 

Communing  lonely  with  his  sinking  soul, 

And  musing  on  the  dubious  glooms  that  lie 

In  dim  obscurity  before  him,  —  thee, 

Wrapt  in  thy  dark  magnificence,  I  call 

At  this  still  midnight  hour,  this  awful  season,  . 

When,  on  my  bed,  in  wakeful  restlessness, 

I  turn  me  wearisome ;  while  all  around, 

All,  all,  save  me,  sink  in  forgetfulness ; 

I  only  wake  to  watch  the  sickly  taper 

Which  lights  me  to  my  tomb.     Yes,  'tis  the  hand 

Of  death  I  feel  press  heavy  on  my  vitals, 

Slow  sapping  the  warm  current  of  existence. 

My  moments  now  are  few  —  the  sand  of  life 

Ebbs  fastly  to  its  finish.     Yet  a  little, 

And  the  last  fleeting  particle  will  fall 

Silent,  unseen,  unnoticed,  unlamented. 

Come  then,  sad  Thought,  and  let  us  meditate, 

While  meditate  we  may.  —  We  have  now 

But  a  small  portion  of  what  men  call  time 

To  hold  communion ;  for  even  now  the  knife, 

The  separating  knife,  I  feel  divide 

The  tender  bond  that  binds  my  soul  to  earth. 

Yes,  I  must  die  —  I  feel  that  I  must  die ; 

And  though  to  me  has  life  been  dark  and  dreary, 

Though  Hope  for  me  has  smiled  but  to  deceive, 


84  THE   POEMS    OP 

And  Disappointment  still  pursued  her  blandishments, 

Yet  do  I  feel  my  soul  recoil  within  me 

As  I  contemplate  the  dim  gulf  of  death, 

The  shuddering  void,  the  awful  blank  —  futurity. 

Ay,  I  had  planned  fall  many  a  sanguine  scheme' 

Of  earthly  happiness  —  romantic  schemes, 

And  fraught  with  loveliness ;  and  it  is  hard 

To  feel  the  hand  of  Death  arrest  one's  steps, 

Throw  a  chill  blight  o'er  all  one's  budding  hopes, 

And  hurl  one's  soul  untimely  to  the  shades, 

Lost  in  the  gaping  gulf  of  blank  oblivion. 

Fifty  years  hence,  and  who  will  hear  of  Henry  ? 

Oh !  none ;  —  another  busy  brood  of  beings 

"Will  shoot  up  in  the  interim,  and  none 

Will  hold  him  in  remembrance.     I  shall  sink 

As  sinks  a  stranger  hi  the  crowded  streets 

Of  busy  London  :  —  some  short  bustle 's  caused, 

A  few  inquiries,  and  the  crowds  close  in, 

And  all 's  forgotten.  —  On  my  grassy  grave 

The  "men  of  future  times  will  careless  tread, 

And  read  my  name  upon  the  sculptured  stone ; 

Nor  will  the  sound,  familiar  to  their  ears, 

Recall  my  vanish'd  memory.     I  did  hope 

For  better  things !  —  I  hoped  I  should  not  leave 

The  earth  without  a  vestige ;  —  Fate  decrees 

It  shall  be  otherwise,  and  I  submit. 

Henceforth,  oh,  world,  no  more  of  thy  desires ! 

No  more  of  hope  !  the  wanton  vagrant  Hope ! 

I  abjure  all.     Now  other  cares  engross  me, 

And  my  tired  soul,  with  emulative  haste, 

Looks  to  its  God,  and  prunes  its  wings  for  heaven. 


KIKKE    WHITE.  85 

VERSES. 

WHEN  pride  and  envy,  and  the  scorn 
Of  wealth  my  heart  with  gall  imbued, 

I  thought  how  pleasant  were  the  morn 
Of  silence,  in  the  solitude  ; 

To  hear  the  forest  bee  on  wing ; 

Or  by  the  stream,  or  woodland  spring, 

To  h'e  and  muse  alone  —  alone, 

While  the  tinkling  waters  moan, 

Or  such  wild  sounds  arise,  as  say, 

Man  and  noise  are  far  away. 

Now,  surely,  thought  I,  there 's  enow 

To  fill  life's  dusty  way ; 
And  who  will  miss  a  poet's  feet, 

Or  wonder  where  he  stray: 
So  to  the  woods  and  wastes  I'll  go, 

And  I  will  build  an  osier  bower, 
And  sweetly  there  to  me  shall  flow 

The  meditative  hour. 

And  when  the  Autumn's  withering  hand, 
Shall  strew  with  leaves  the  sylvan  land, 
I'll  to  the  forest  caverns  hie : 
And  hi  the  dark  and  stormy  nights 
I'll  listen  to  the  shrieking  sprites, 
Who,  in  the  wintry  wolds  and  floods, 
Keep  jubilee,  and  shred  the  woods ; 
Or,  as  it  drifted  soft  and  slow, 
Hurl  in  ten  thousand  shapes  the  snow. 


86  THE    POEMS    OF 


FRAGMENT. 

OH  !  thou  most  fatal  of  Pandora's  train, 
Consumption !  silent  cheater  of  the  eye ; 

Thou  comest  not  robed  in  agonizing  pain, 

Nor  mark'st  thy  course  with  Death's  delusive  dye, 
But  silent  and  unnoticed  thou  dost  lie  ; 

O'er  life's  soft  springs  thy  venom  dost  diffuse, 
And,  while  thou  givest  new  lustre  to  the  eye, 

While  o'er  the  cheek  are  spread  health's  ruddy  hues, 

E'en  then  life's  little  rest  thy  cruel  power  subdues. 

Oft  I've  beheld  thee,  in  the  glow  of  youth, 

Hid  'neath  the  blushing  roses  which  there  bloomed ; 

And  dropped  a  tear,  for  then  thy  cankering  tooth 
I  knew  would  never  stay,  till  all  consumed, 
In  the  cold  vault  of  death  he  were  entombed. 

But  oh !  what  sorrow  did  I  feel,  as  swift, 

Insidious  ravager,  I  saw  thee  fly 
Through  fair  Lucina's  breast  of  whitest  snow, 

Preparing  swift  her  passage  to  the  sky. 
Though  still  intelligence  beamed  in  the  glance, 

The  liquid  lustre  of  her  fine  blue  eye ; 
Yet  soon  did  languid  listlessness  advance, 
And   soon   she  calmly  sunk   in   death's   repugnant 
trance. 


KIBKE    WHITE.  87 

Even  when  her  end  was  swiftly  drawing  near, 
And  dissolution  hovered  o'er  her  head : 

Even  then  so  beauteous  did  her  form  appear, 
That  none  who  saw  her  but  admiring  said, 
"  Sure  so  much  beauty  never  could  be  dead." 

Yet  the  dark  lash  of  her  expressive  eye 

Bent  lowly  down  upon  the  languid  — 


FRAGMENT. 

LOUD  rage  the  winds  without.  —  The  wintry  cloud 
O'er  the  cold  northstar  casts  her  flitting  shroud ; 
And  Silence,  pausing  in  some  snow-clad  dale, 
Starts  as  she  hears,  by  fits,  the  shrieking  gale ; 
Where  now,  shut  out  from  every  still  retreat, 
Her  pine-clad  summit,  and  her  woodland  seat, 
Shall  Meditation,  in  her  saddest  mood, 
Retire  o'er  all  her  pensive  stores  to  brood  ? 
Shivering  and  blue  the  peasant  eyes  askance 
The  drifted  fleeces  that  around  him  dance, 
And  hurries  on  his  half-averted  form, 
Stemming  the  fury  of  the  sidelong  storm. 
Him  soon  shall  greet  his  snow-topped  [cot  of  thatch], 
Soon  shall  his  numbed  hand  tremble  on  the  latch, 
Soon  from  his  chimney's  nook  the  cheerful  flame 
Diffuse  a  genial  warmth  throughout  his  frame ; 
Round  the  light  fire,  while  roars  the  north  wind  loud, 
What  merry  groups  of  vacant  faces  crowd ; 


88  THE    POEMS    OF 

These  hail  his  coming  —  these  his  meal  prepare, 
And  boast  La  all  that  cot  no  lurking  care. 

What  though  the  social  circle  be  denied, 
Even  Sadness  brightens  at  her  own  fireside, 
Loves,  with  fixed  eye,  to  watch  the  fluttering  blaze, 
While  musing  Memory  dwells  on  former  days  ; 
Or  Hope,  bless'd  spirit !  smiles  —  and  still  forgiven, 
Forgets  the  passport,  while  she  points  to  Heaven. 
Then  heap  the  fire  —  shut  out  the  biting  air, 
And  from  its  station  wheel  the  easy  chair : 
Thus  fenced  and  warm,  in  silent  fit,  'tis  sweet 
To  hear  without  the  bitter  tempest  beat, 
All,  all  alone  —  to  sit,  and  muse,  and  sigh, 
The  pensive  tenant  of  obscurity. 


TO  A  FRIEND   IN  DISTRESS, 

WHO,  WHEN  THE  AUTHOR  REASONED  WITH  HIM   CALMLY, 
ASKED,   "IF  HE  DID  NOT   PEEL  FOR  HIM." 

"  Do  I  not  feel  ?  "     The  doubt  is  keen  as  steel. 
Yea,  I  do  feel  —  most  exquisitely  feel ; 
My  heart  can  weep,  when,  from  my  downcast  eye, 
I  chase  the  tear,  and  stem  the  rising  sigh : 
Deep  buried  there  I  close  the  rankling  dart, 
And  smile  the  most  when  heaviest  is  my  heart. 
On  this  I  act  —  whatever  pangs  surround, 
'Tis  magnanimity  to  hide  the  wound ! 


KIKKE    WHITE.  89 

When  all  was  new,  and  life  was  in  its  spring, 

I  lived  an  unloved,  solitary  thing ; 

Even  then  I  learned  to  bury  deep  from  day 

The  piercing  cares  that  wore  my  youth  away : 

Even  then  I  learned  for  others'  cares  to  feel ; 

Even  then  I  wept  I  had  not  power  to  heal : 

Even  then,  deep-sounding  through  the  nightly  gloom, 

I  heard  the  wretched's    groan,   and  mourned  the 

wretched's  doom. 
Who  were  my  friends  in  youth  ?  —  The  midnight 

fire  — 

The  silent  moonbeam,  or  the  starry  choir ; 
To  these  I  'plained,  or  turn'd  from  outer  sight, 
To  bless  my  lonely  taper's  friendly  light ; 
I  never  yet  could  ask,  howe'er  forlorn, 
For  vulgar  pity  mixed  with  vulgar  scorn ; 
The  sacred  source  of  woe  I  never  ope, 
My  breast 's  my  coffer,  and  my  God 's  my  hope. 
But  that  I  do  feel,  Time,  my  friend,  will  show, 
Though  the  cold  crowd  the  secret  never  know ; 
With  them  I  laugh  —  yet,  when  no  eye  can  see, 
I  weep  for  nature,  and  I  weep  for  thee. 
Yes,  thou  didst  wrong  me,  .  .  . ;  I  fondly  thought, 
In  thee  I  'd  found  the  friend  my  heart  had  sought ! 
I  fondly  thought,  that  thou  couldst  pierce  the  guise, 
And  read  the  truth  that  in  my  bosom  lies ; 
I  fondly  thought,  ere  Time's  last  days  were  gone, 
Thy  heart  and  mine  had  mingled  into  one ! 
Yes  —  and  they  yet  will  mingle.     Days  and  years 
Will  fly,  and  leave  us  partners  in  our  tears : 


90  THE    POEMS    OF 

We  then  shall  feel  that  friendship  has  a  power 
To  soothe  affliction  in  her  darkest  hour ; 
Time's  trial  o'er,  shall  clasp  each  other's  hand, 
And  wait  the  passport  to  a  better  land. 
Thine, 

H.  K.  WHITE. 
Half  past  Eleven  o'clock  at  Night. 


CHEISTMAS    DAY. 

1804. 

YET  once  more,  and  once  more,  awake,  my  Harp, 
From  silence  and  neglect  —  one  lofty  strain ; 
Lofty,  yet. wilder  than  the  winds  of  Heaven, 
And  speaking  mysteries  more  than  words  can  tell, 
I  ask  of  thee ;  for  I,  with  hymnings  high, 
Would  join  the  dirge  of  the  departing  year. 

Yet  with  no  wintry  garland  from  the  woods, 
Wrought  of  the  leafless  branch,  or  ivy  sere, 
Wreathe  I  thy  tresses,  dark  December !  now ; 
Me  higher  quarrel  calls,  with  loudest  song, 
And  fearful  joy,  to  celebrate  the  day 
Of  the  Eedeemer.  —  Near  two  thousand  suns 
Have  set  their  seals  upon  the  rolling  lapse 
Of  generations,  since  the  dayspring  first 
Beamed  from  on  high !  —  Now  to  the  mighty  mass 
Of  that  increasing  aggregate  we  add 
One  unit  more.     Space  in  comparison 
How  small,  yet  marked  with  how  much  misery ; 


KIBKE    WHITE.  91 

Wars,  famines,  and  the  fury,  Pestilence, 
Over  the  nations  hanging  her  dread  scourge ; 
The  oppressed,  too,  in  silent  bitterness, 
Weeping  their  sufferance  ;  and  the  arm  of  wrong, 
Forcing  the  scanty  portion  from  the  weak, 
And  steeping  the  lone  widow's  couch  with  tears. 

So  has  the  year  been  charactered  with  woe 
In   Christian  land,  and   marked  with  wrongs   and 

crimes; 

Yet 't  was  not  thus  He  taught  —  not  thus  He  lived, 
Whose  birth  we  this  day  celebrate  with  prayer 
And  much  thanksgiving.     He,  a  man  of  woes, 
Went  on  the  way  appointed,  —  path,  though  rude, 
Yet  borne  with  patience  still :  —  He  came  to  cheer 
The  broken-hearted,  to  raise  up  the  sick, 
And  on  the  wandering  and  benighted  mind 
To  pour  the  light  of  truth.     O  task  divine  ! 
O  more  than  angel  teacher !     He  had  words 
To  soothe  the  barking  waves,  and  hush  the  winds ;. 
And  when  the  soul  was  tossed  in  troubled  seas, 
Wrapped  in  thick  darkness  and  the  howling  storm, 
He,  pointing  to  the  star  of  peace  on  high, 
Arm'd  it  with  holy  fortitude,  and  bade  it  smile 

At  the  surrounding  wreck. 

When  with  deep  agony  his  heart  was  racked, 
Not  for  himself  the  tear-drop  dewed  his  cheek, 
For  them  He  wept,  for  them  to  Heaven  He  prayed, 
His  persecutors  —  "  Father,  pardon  them, 
They  know  not  what  they  do." 

Angels  of  Heaven, 
Ye  who  beheld  Him  fainting  on  the  cross, 


92  THE   POEMS    OF 

And  did  him  homage,  say,  may  mortal  join 

The  halleluiahs  of  the  risen  God  ? 

Will  the  faint  voice  and  grovelling  song  be  heard 

Amid  the  seraphim  in  light  divine  ? 

Yes,  he  will  deign,  the  Prince  of  Peace  will  deign, 

For  mercy,  to  accept  the  hymn  of  faith, 

Low  though  it  be  and  humble.     Lord  of  life, 

The  Christ,  the  Comforter,  thine  advent  now 

Fills  my  uprising  soul.  —  I  mount,  I  fly 

Far  o'er  the  skies,  beyond  the  rolling  orbs ; 

The  bonds  of  flesh  dissolve,  and  earth  recedes, 

And  care,  and  pain,  and  sorrow  are  no  more. 


NELSONI    MOBS. 

YET  once  again,  my  Harp,  yet  once  again 
Qne  ditty  more,  and  on  the  mountain  ash 
I  will  again  suspend  thee.     I  have  felt 
The  warm  tear  frequent  on  my  cheek,  since  last, 
At  eventide,  when  all  the  winds  were  hushed, 
I  woke  to  thee  the  melancholy  song. 
Since  then  with  Thoughtfulness,  a  maid  severe, 
I  've  journeyed,  and  have  learned  to  shape  the  freaks 
Of  frolic  fancy  to  the  line  of  truth  ; 
Not  unrepining,  for  my  froward  heart 
Stills  turns  to  thee,  mine  Harp,  and  to  the  flow 
Of  spring-gales  past  —  the  woods  and  storied  haunts 
Of  my  not  songless  boyhood.  —  Yet  once  more, 
Not  fearless,  I  will  wake  thy  tremulous  tones, 


KIEKE     WHITE.  93 

My  long-neglected  Harp.     He  must  not  sink ; 
The  good,  the  brave  —  he  must  not,  shall  not  sink 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Though  from  the  Muse's  chalice  I  may  pour 
No  precious  dews  of  Aganippe's  well, 
Or  Castaly,  —  though  from  the  morning  cloud 
I  fetch  no  hues  to  scatter  on  his  hearse : 
Yet  will  I  wreathe  a  garland  for  his  brows, 
Of  simple  flowers,  such  as  the  hedge-rows  scent 
Of  Britain,  my  loved  country ;  and  with  tears 
Most  eloquent,  yet  silent,  I  will  bathe 
Thy  honour'd  corse,  my  Nelson,  tears  as  warm 
And  honest  as  the  ebbing  blood  that  flow'd 
Fast  from  thy  honest  heart.     Thou,  Pity,  too, 
If  ever  I  have  loved,  with  faltering  step, 
To  follow  thee  in  the  cold  and  starless  night, 
To  the  top-crag  of  some  rain-beaten  cliff ; 
And,  as  I  heard  the  deep  gun  bursting  loud 
Amid  the  pauses  of  the  storm,  have  poured 
Wild  strains,  and  mournful,  to  the  hurrying  winds, 
The  dying  soul's  viaticum ;  if  oft 
Amid  the  carnage  of  the  field  I  Ve  sate 
With  thee  upon  the  moonlight  throne,  and  sung 
To  cheer  the  fainting  soldier's  dying  soul, 
With  mercy  and  forgiveness  —  visitant 
Of  Heaven  —  sit  thou  upon  my  harp, 
And  give  it  feeling,  which  were  else  too  cold 
For  argument  so  great,  for  theme  so  high. 

How  dimly  on  that  morn  the  sun  arose, 
'Kerchiefed  in  mists,  and  tearful,  when  — 


94  THE   POEMS   OP 


EPIGRAM  ON  ROBERT  BLOOMPIELD. 

BLOOMFIELD,  thy  happy-omened  name 
Ensures  continuance  to  thy  fame ; 
Both  sense  and  truth  this  verdict  give, 
While  fields  shall  bloom,  thy  name  shall  live ! 


ELEGY 

OCCASIONED    BY    THE    DEATH    OF    ME.    GILL,    WHO    WA8 

DROWNED    IN    THE    RIVER    TRENT,  WHILE 

BATHING,   9TH  AUGUST.   1802. 

HE  sunk,  the  impetuous  river  rolled  along, 
The  sullen  wave  betray'd  his  dying  breath ; 

And  rising  sad  the  rustling  sedge  among, 

The  gale  of  evening  touched  the  cords  of  death. 

Nymph  of  the  Trent !  why  didst  thou  not  appear 
To  snatch  the  victim  from  thy  felon  wave ! 

Alas !  too  late  thou  earnest  to  embalm  his  bier, 
And  deck  with  waterflags  his  early  grave. 

Triumphant,  riding  o'er  its  tumid  prey, 
Rolls  the  red  stream  in  sanguinary  pride ; 

While  anxious  crowds,  in  vain,  expectant  stay, 
And  ask  the  swoln  corse  from  the  murdering  tide- 


KIRKE   WHITE.  95 

The  stealing  tear-drop  stagnates  in  the  eye, 
The  sudden  sigh  by  friendship's  bosom  proved, 

I  mark  them  rise  —  I  mark  the  general  sigh ! 
Unhappy  youth !  and  wert  thou  so  beloved  ? 

On  thee,  as  lone  I  trace  the  Trent's  green  brink, 
When  the  dim  twilight  slumbers  on  the  glade  ; 

On  thee  my  thoughts  shall  dwell,  nor  Fancy  shrink 
To  hold  mysterious  converse  with  thy  shade. 

Of  thee,  as  early,  I,  with  vagrant  feet, 

Hail  the  gray-sandalled  morn  in  Colwick's  vale, 

Of  thee  my  sylvan  reed  shall  warble  sweet, 
And  wild-wood  echoes  shall  repeat  the  tale. 

And,  oh !  .ye  nymphs  of  Pseon  !  who  preside 
O'er  running  rill  and  salutary  stream. 

Guard  ye  in  future  well  the  halcyon  tide 

From  the  rude  death-shriek  and  the  dying  scream. 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A   MONUMENT   TO   THE 
MEMORY  OF  COWPER. 

READER  !  if  with  no  vulgar  sympathy 
Thou  view'st  the  wreck  of  genius  and  of  worth, 
Stay  thou  thy  footsteps  near  this  hallowed  spot. 
Here  Cowper  rests.     Although  renown  have  made 
His  name  familiar  to  thine  ear,  this  stone 
May  tell  thee  that  his  virtues  were  above 
The  common  portion :  —  that  the  voice,  now  hushed 


96  THE   POEMS    OP 

In  death,  was  once  serenely  querulous 
With  pity's  tones,  and  in  the  ear  of  woe 
Spake  music.     Now,  forgetful,  at  thy  feet, 
His  tired  head  presses  on  its  last  long  rest, 
Still  tenant  of  the  tomb  ;  —  and  on  the  cheek, 
Once  warm  with  animation's  lambent  flush, 
Sits  the  pale  image  of  unmarked  decay. 
Yet  mourn  not.     He  had  chosen  the  better  part ; 
And,  these  sad  garments  of  Mortality 
Put  off,  we  trust,  that  to  a  happier  land 
He  went  a  light  and  gladsome  passenger. 
Sigh'st  thou  for  honours,  reader  ?     Call  to  mind 
That  glory's  voice  is  impotent  to  pierce 
The  silence  of  the  tomb !  but  virtue  blooms 
Even  on  the  wreck  of  life,  and  mounts  the  skies. 
So  gird  thy  loins  with  lowliness,  and  walk 
With  Cowper  on  the  pilgrimage  of  Christ. 
\ 

"I'M  PLEASED,  AND   YET  I'M   SAD. 

WHEN  twilight  steals  along  the  ground, 
And  all  the  bells  are  ringing  round, 

One,  two,  three,  four,  and  five, 
I  at  my  study  window  sit, 
And,  wrapped  in  many  a  musing  fit, 

To  bliss  am  all  alive. 

But  though  impressions  calm  and  sweet 
Thrill  round  my  heart  a  holy  heat, 
And  I  am  inly  glad ; 


KIKKE    WHITE.  97 

The  tear-drop  stands  in  either  eye, 
And  yet  I  cannot  tell  thee  why, 
I'm  pleased,  and  yet  I'm  sad. 

The  silvery  rack  that  flies  away, 
Like  mortal  life  or  pleasure's  ray, 

Does  that  disturb  my  breast  ? 
Nay,  what  have  I,  a  studious  man, 
To  do  with  life's  unstable  plan, 

Or  pleasure's  fading  vest  ? 

Is  it  that  here  I  must  not  stop, 
But  o'er  yon  blue  hill's  woody  top 

Must  bend  my  lonely  way  ? 
No,  surely  no  !  for  give  but  me 
My  own  fireside,  and  I  shall  be 

At  home  where'er  I  stray. 

Then  is  it  that  yon  steeple  there, 
With  music  sweet  shall  fill  the  air, 

When  thou  no  more  canst  hear  ? 
Oh,  no !  oh,  no !  for  then,  forgiven, 
I  shall  be  with  my  God  in  heaven, 

Released  from  every  fear. 

Then  whence  it  is  I  cannot  tell, 
But  there  is  some  mysterious  spell 

That  holds  me  when  I'm  glad; 
And  so  the  tear-drop  fills  my  eye, 
When  yet  in  truth  I  know  not  why, 

Or  wherefore  I  am  sad. 
7 


98  THE   POEMS    OF 


SOLITUDE. 

IT  is  not  that  my  lot  is  low, 
That  bids  this  silent  tear  to  flow ; 
It  is  not  grief  that  bids  me  moan ; 
It  is  that  I  am  all  alone. 

Tn  woods  and  glens  I  love  to  roam, 
When  the  tired  hedger  hies  him  home ; 
Or  by  the  woodland  pool  to  rest, 
When  pale  the  star  looks  on  its  breast. 

Yet  when  the  silent  evening  sighs, 
With  hallowed  airs  and  symphonies, 
My  spirit  takes  another  tone, 
And  sighs  that  it  is  all  alone. 

The  autumn  leaf  is  sere  and  dead, 
It  floats  upon  the  water's  bed ; 
I  would  not  be  a  leaf,  to  die 
Without  recording  sorrow's  sigh ! 

The  woods  and  winds,  with  sullen  wail, 
Tell  all  the  same  unvaried  tale ; 
I've  none  to  smile  when  I  am  free, 
And  when  I  sigh,  to  sigh  with  me. 

Yet  hi  my  dreams  a  form  I  view, 
That  thinks  on  me,  and  loves  me  too ; 
I  start,  and  when  the  vision's  flown, 
I  weep  that  I  am  all  alone. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  99 


IP  far  from  me  the  Fates  remove 
Domestic  peace,  connubial  love, 
The  prattling  ring,  the  social  cheer, 
Affection's  voice,  affection's  tear, 
Ye  sterner  powers,  that  bind  the  heart, 
To  me  your  iron  aid  impart ! 

0  teach  me  when  the  nights  are  chill, 
And  my  fireside  is  lone  and  still ; 
When  to  the  blaze  that  crackles  near, 

1  turn  a  tired  and  pensive  ear, 

And  Nature  conquering  bids  me  sigh 
For  love's  soft  accents  whispering  nigh ; 

0  teach  me,  on  that  heavenly  road, 
That  leads  to  Truth's  occult  abode, 
To  wrap  my  soul  in  dreams  sublime, 
Till  earth  and  care  no  more  be  mine. 
Let  blessed  Philosophy  .impart 

Her  soothing  measures  to  my  heart ; 
And  while  with  Plato's  ravished  ears 

1  list  the  music  of  the  spheres, 
Or  on  the  mystic  symbols  pore, 
That  hide  the  Chald's  sublimer  lore, 
I  shall  not  brood  on  summers  gone, 
Nor  think  that  I  am  all  alone. 


FANNY  !  upon  thy  breast  I  may  not  lie ! 

Fanny !  thou  dost  not  hear  me  when  I  speak ! 
Where  art  thou,  love  ?  —  Around  I  turn  my  eye, 

And  as  I  turn,  the  tear  is  on  my  cheek. 


100  THE   POEMS    OP 

Was  it  a  dream  ?  or  did  my  love  behold 

Indeed  my  lonely  couch  ?  —  Methought  the  breath 

Fann'd  not  her  bloodless  lip ;  her  eye  was  cold 
And  hollow,  and  the  livery  of  death 

Invested  her  pale  forehead.     Sainted  maid ! 

My  thoughts  oft  rest  with  thee  in  thy  cold  grave, 
Through  the  long  wintry  night,  when  wind  and 
wave 

Rock  the  dark  house  where  thy  poor  head  is  laid. 

Yet,  hush !  my  fond  heart,  hush !  there  is  a  shore 
Of  better  promise ;  and  I  know  at  last, 
When  the  long  sabbath  of  the  tomb  is  past, 

We  two  shall  meet  in  Christ — to  part  no  more. 


FRAGMENTS.* 

"  SAW'S!  thou  that  light  ?  "  exclaimed  the  youth,  and 

paused : 

"  Through  yon  dark  firs  it  glanced,  and  on  the  stream 
That  skirts  the  woods  it  for  a  moment  played. 
Again,  more  light  it  gleamed,  —  or  does  some  sprite 
Delude  mine  eyes  with  shapes  of  wood  and  streams, 
And  lamp  far  beaming  through  the  thicket's  gloom, 
As  from  some  bosomed  cabin,  where  the  voice 
Of  revelry,  or  thrifty  watchfulness, 
Keeps  in  the  lights  at  this  unwonted  hour  ? 
No  sprite  deludes  mine  eyes,  —  the  beam  now  glows 

*  These  Fragments  were  written  upon  the  back  of  his  mathe- 
matical papers,  during  the  last  year  of  his  life. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  101 

With  steady  lustre.  —  Can  it  be  the  moon 

Who,  hidden  long  by  the  invidious  veil 

That  blots  the  Heavens,  now  sets'  behind  the  woods  ?  " 

"  No  moon  to-night  has  looked  upon  the  sea 

Of  clouds  beneath  her,"  answered  Rudiger, 

••  She  has  been  sleeping  with  Endymioii." 


THE  pious  man, 

In  this  bad  world,  when  mists  and  couchant  storms 
Hide  Heaven's  fine  circlet,  springs  aloft  in  faith 
Above  the  clouds  that  threat  him,  to  the  fields 
Of  ether,  where  the  day  is  never  veiled 
With  intervening  vapours,  and  looks  down 
Serene  upon  the  troublous  sea,  that  hides 
The  earth's  fair  breast,  that  sea  whose  nether  face 
To  grovelling  mortals  frowns  and  darkens  all ; 
But  on  whose  billowy  back,  from  man  concealed, 
The  glaring  sunbeam  plays. 

Lo !  on  the  eastern  summit,  clad  in  gray, 
Morn,  like  a  horseman  girt  for  travel,  comes ; 
And  from  his  tower  of  mist, 
Night's  watchman  hurries  down. 

THERE  was  a  little  bird  upon  that  pile ; 
It  perched  upon  a  ruined  pinnacle, 
And  made  sweet  melody. 


102  THE   POEMS    OF 

The  song  was  soft,  yet  cheerful,  and  most  clear, 
For  other  note  none  swelled  the  air  but  his. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  little  chorister, 
Sole  tenant  of  the  melancholy  pile, 
Were  a  lone  hermit,  outcast  from  his  kind, 
Yet  withal  cheerful.     I  have  heard  the  note 
Echoing  so  lonely  o'er  the  aisle  forlorn, 
Much  musing 


0  PALE  art  thou,  my  lamp,  and  faint 

Thy  melancholy  ray : 
When  the  still  night's  unclouded  saint 

Is  walking  on  her  way. 
Through  my  lattice  leaf-embowered, 
Fair  she  sheds  her  shadowy  beam, 
And  o'er  my  silent  sacred  room 
Casts  a  checkered  twilight  gloom  ; 
I  throw  aside  the  learned  sheet, 

1  cannot  choose  but  gaze,  she  looks  so  mildly  sweet 

Sad  vestal,  why  art  thou  so  fair, 

Or  why  am  I  so  frail  ?  * 

Methinks  thou  lookest  kindly  on  me,  Moon, 

And  cheerest  my  lone  hours  with  sweet  regards ! 
Surely  like  me  thou  'rt  sad,  but  dost  not  speak 
Thy  sadness  to  the  cold  unheeding  crowd ; 
So  mournfully  composed,  o'er  yonder  cloud 
Thou  shinest,  like  a  cresset,  beaming  far 
From  the  rude  watch-tower,  o'er  the  Atlantic  wave. 


KIKKE    WHITE.  103 

0  GIVE  me  music  —  for  my  soul  doth  faint ; 

I'm  sick  of  noise  and  care,  and  now  mine  ear 
Longs  for  some  air  of  peace,  some  dying  plaint, 

That  may  the  spirit  from  its  cell  unsphere. 

Hark  how  it  falls !  and  now  it  steals  along, 
Like  distant  bells  upon  the  lake  at  eve, 

When  all  is  still ;  and  now  it  grows  more  strong, 
As  when  the  choral  train  their  dirges  weave, 

Mellow  and  many-voiced ;  where  every  close, 
O'er  the  old  minster  roof,  in  echoing  waves  re- 
flows. 

Oh !  I  am  wrapt  aloft.     My  spirit  soars 

Beyond  the  skies,  and  leaves  the  stars  behind. 

Lo !  angels  lead  me  to  the  happy  shores, 
And  floating  pasans  fill  the  buoyant  wind. 

Farewell !  base  earth,  farewell !  my  soul  is  freed, 

Far  from  its  clayey  cell  it  springs,  — 


AND  must  thou  go,  and  must  we  part  ? 

Yes,  Fate  decrees,  and  I  submit ; 
The  pang  that  rends  in  twain  my  heart, 

Oh,  Fanny,  dost  thou  share  in  it  ? 

Thy  sex  is  fickle,  —  when  away, 

Some  happier  youth  may  win  thy  - 


104  THE   POEMS    OF 


AH  !  who  can  say,  however  fair  his  view, 
Through  what  sad  scenes  his  path  may  lie  ? 
Ah !  who  can  give  to  others'  woes  his  sigh, 

Secure  his  own  will  never  need  it  too  ? 

Let  thoughtless  youth  its  seeming  joys  pursue, 
Soon  will  they  learn  to  scan  with  thoughtful  eye 
The  illusive  past  and  dark  futurity  ; 

Soon  will  they  know  — 


HUSHED  is  the  lyre  —  the  hand  that  swept 
The  low  and  pensive  wires, 
Robbed  of  its  cunning,  from  the  task  retires. 

Yes  —  it  is  still  —  the  lyre  is  still ; 

The  spirit  which  its  slumbers  broke 

Hath  passed  away,  —  and  that  weak  hand  that 

woke 
Its  forest  melodies  hath  lost  its  skill. 

Yet  I  would  press  you  to  my  lips  once  more, 
Ye  wild,  yet  withering  flowers  of  poesy ; 

Yet  would  I  drink  the  fragrance  which  ye  pour, 
Mix'd  with  decaying  odours :  for  to  me 

Ye  have  beguiled  the  hours  of  infancy, 
As  in  the  wood-paths  of  my  native  — 


KIRKE   WHITE.  105 

WHEN  high  romance  o'er  every  wood  and  stream 

Dark  lustre  shed,  my  infant  mind  to  fire, 
Spell-struck,  and  filled  with  many  a  wondering  dream, 

First  in  the  groves  I  woke  the  pensive  lyre. 
All  there  was  mystery  then,  the  gust  that  woke 

The  midnight  echo  was  a  spirit's  dirge, 
And  unseen  fairies  would  the  moon  invoke 

To  their  light  morrice  by  the  restless  surge. 
Now  to  my  sobered  thought  with  life's  false  smiles, 

Too  much     ...  • 

The  vagrant  Fancy  spreads  no  more  her  wiles, 

And  dark  forebodings  now  my  bosom  fill. 


ONCE  more,  and  yet  once  more, 

I  give  unto  my  harp  a  dark- woven  lay ; 
I  heard  the  waters  roar, 

I  heard  the  flood  of  ages  pass  away. 
O  thou,  stern  spirit,  who  dost  dwell 

In  thine  eternal  cell, 
Noting,  gray  chronicler !  the  silent  years, 

I  saw  thee  rise,  —  I  saw  the  scroll  complete  ; 

Thou  spakest,  and  at  thy  feet 
The  universe  gave  way. 


106  THE    POEMS    OP 


FRAGMENT  OF  AN  ECCENTRIC  DRAMA. 

WK1TTKN  AT  A  VERY  KAKLY  AGE. 

THE   DANCE    OP   THE    CONSUMPTIVES. 

DING-DONG!  ding-dong! 
•  Merry,  merry  go  the  bells, 

Ding-dong!  ding-dong! 
Over  the  heath,  over  the  moor,  and  over  the  dale, 

"  Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar," 
Dance,  dance  away  the  jocund  roundelay ! 
Ding-dong,  ding-dong  calls  us  away. 

Round  the  oak,  and  round  the  elm, 
Merrily  foot  it  o'er  the  ground ! 
The  sentry  ghost  it  stands  aloof, 
So  merrily,  merrily  foot  it  round. 
Ding-dong!  ding-dong! 
Merry,  merry  go  the  bells, 
Swelling  in  the  nightly  gale,  . 

The  sentry  ghost, 
It  keeps  its  post, 

And  soon,  and  soon  our  sports  must  fail : 
But  let  us  trip  the  nightly  ground, 
While  the  merry,  merry  bells  ring  round. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  107 

Hark !  Hark !  the  deathwatch  ticks ! 
See,  see,  the  winding-sheet ! 

Our  dance  is  done, 

Our  race  is  run, 
And  we  must  lie  at  the  alder's  feet ! 

Ding-dong!  ding-dong! 

Merry,  merry  go  the  bells, 
Swinging  o'er  the  weltering  wave ! 

And  we  must  seek 

Our  deathbeds  bleak, 
Where  the  green  sod  grows  upon  the  grave. 

They  vanish  —  The  Goddess  of  Consumption  descends,  habited 
in  a  sky-blue  robe,  attended  by  mournful  music. 

Come,  Melancholy,  sister  mine ! 

Cold  the  dews,  and  chill  the  night ! 
Come  from  thy  dreary  shrine ! 

The  wan  moon  climbs  the  heavenly  height, 
And  underneath  her  sickly  ray 
Troops  of  squalid  spectres  play, 
And  the  dying  mortals'  groan 
Startles  the  night  on  her  dusky  throne. 
Come,  come,  sister  mine ! 
Gliding  on  the  pale  moonshine : 
"We  '11  ride  at  ease 
On  the  tainted  breeze, 
And  oh !  our  sport  will  be  divine. 

The  Goddess  of  Melancholy  advances  out  of  a  deep  glen  in  the 
rear,  habited  in  black,  and  covered  with  a  thick  veil.  —  She 


108  THE    POEMS    OP 

Sister,  from  my  dark  abode, 
Where  nests  the  raven,  sits  the  toad, 
Hither  I  come,  at  thy  command : 
Sister,  sister,  join  thy  hand  ! 
I  will  smooth  the  way  for  thee, 
Thou  shalt  furnish  food  for  me. 
Come,  let  us  speed  our  way 
Where  the  troops  of  spectres  play. 
To  charnel-houses,  churchyards  drear, 
Where  Death  sits  with  a  horrible  leer, 
A  lasting  grin,  on  a  throne  of  bones, 
And  skim  along  the  blue  tombstones. 

Come,  let  us  speed  away, 
Lay  our  snares,  and  spread  our  tether ! 
I  will  smooth  the  way  for  thee, 
Thou  shalt  furnish  food  for  me ; 
And  the  grass  shall  wave 
O'er  many  a  grave, 
Where  youth  and  beauty  sleep  together. 

CONSUMPTION. 

Come,  let  us  speed  our  way, 
Join  our  hands,  and  spread  our  tether ! 
I  will  furnish  food  for  thee, 
Thou  shalt  smooth  the  way  for  me ! 
And  the  grass  shall  wave 
O'er  many  a  grave, 
Where  youth  and  beauty  sleep  together. 


KIRKE   WHITE.  109 

MELANCHOLY. 

Hist,  sister,  hist !  who  comes  here  ? 
Oh!  I  know  her  by  that  tear, 
By  that  blue  eye's  languid  glare, 
By  her  skin,  and  by  her  hair : 

She  is  mine, 

And  she  is  thine, 
Now  the  deadliest  draught  prepare. 

CONSUMPTION. 

In  the  dismal  night  air  dressed, 
I  will  creep  into  her  breast : 
Flush  her  cheek,  and  bleach  her  skin, 
And  feed  on  the  vital  fire  within. 
Lover,  do  not  trust  her  eyes,  — 
When  they  sparkle  most,  she  dies ! 
Mother,  do  not  trust  her  breath,  — 
Comfort  she  will  breathe  in  death ! 
Father,  do  not  strive  to  save  her,  — 
She  is  mine,  and  I  must  have  her ! 
The  coffin  must  be  her  bridal  bed ! 
The  winding-sheet  must  wrap  her  head ; 
The  whispering  winds  must  o'er  her  sigh, 
For  soon  in  the  grave  the  maid  must  lie : 

The  worm  it  will  riot 

On  heavenly  diet, 
When  death  has  deflowered  her  eye. 

[They  vanish. 
While  Consumption  speaks,  Angelina  enters. 


110  THE   POEMS    OF 

ANGELINA. 

With  *  what  a  silent  and  dejected  pace 

Dost  thou,  wan  Moon !  upon  thy  way  advance 

In  the  blue  welkin's  vault !  —  Pale  wanderer ! 

Hast  thou  too  felt  the  pangs  of  hopeless  love, 

That  thus,  with  such  a  melancholy  grace, 

Thou  dost  pursue  thy  solitary  course  ? 

Has  thy  Endymion,  smooth-faced  boy,  forsook 

Thy  widowed  breast  —  on  which  the  spoiler  oft 

Has  nestled  fondly,  while  the  silver  clouds 

Fantastic  pillowed  thee,  and  the  dun  night, 

Obsequious  to  thy  will,  encurtain'd  round 

"With  its  thick  fringe  thy  couch  ?     Wan  traveller, 

How  like  thy  fate  to  mine !  —  Yet  I  have  still 

One  heavenly  hope  remaining,  which  thou  lack'st ; 

My  woes  will  soon  be  buried  hi  the  grave 

Of  kind  forgetfulness  —  my  journey  here, 

Though  it  be  darksome,  joyless,  and  forlorn, 

Is  yet  but  short,  and  soon  my  weary  feet 

Will  greet  the  peaceful  inn  of  lasting  rest. 

But  thou,  unhappy  Queen !  art  doomed  to  trace 

Thy  lonely  walk  in  the  drear  realms  of  night, 

While  many  a  lagging  age  shall  sweep  beneath 

The  leaden  pinions  of  unshaken  time ; 

Though  not  a  hope  shall  spread  its  glittering  hue 

To  cheat  thy  steps  along  the  weary  way. 

*  With  how  sad  steps,  0  Moon!  thou  climb' st  the  skies, 
How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face ! 

Sir  P.  Sidney. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  Ill 

0  that  the  sum  of  human  happiness 

Should  be  so  trifling,  and  so  frail  withal, 

That  when  possessed,  it  is  but  lessened  grief; 

And  even  then  there 's  scarce  a  sudden  gust 

That  blows  across  the  dismal  waste  of  life, 

But  bears  it  from  the  view.     Oh !  who  would  shun 

The  hour  that  cuts  from  earth,  and  fear  to  press 

The  calm  and  peaceful  pillows  of  the  grave, 

And  yet  endure  the  various  ills  of  life, 

And  dark  vicissitudes !     Soon,  I  hope,  I  feel, 

And  am  assured,  that  I  shall  lay  my  head, 

My  weary  aching  head,  on  its  last  rest, 

And  on  my  lowly  bed  the  grass-green  sod 

Will  flourish  sweetly.     And  then  they  will  weep 

That  one  so  young,  and  what  they  're  pleased  to  call 

So  beautiful,  should  die  so  soon,  —  and  tell 

How  painful  Disappointment's  cankered  fang 

Withered  the  rose  upon  my  maiden  cheek. 

Oh,  foolish  ones !  why,  I  shall  sleep  so  sweetly, 

Laid  in  my  darksome  grave,  that  they  themselves 

Might  envy  me  my  rest !     And  as  for  them, 

Who,  on  the  score  of  former  intimacy, 

May  thus  remembrance  me  —  they  must  themselves 

Successive  fall. 

Around  the  winter  fire 
(When  out-a-doors  the  biting  frost  congeals, 
And  shrill  the  skater's  irons  on  the  pool 
Ring  loud,  as  by  the  moonlight  he  performs 
His  graceful  evolutions)  they  not  long 
Shall  sit  and  chat  of  older  times,  and  feats 


112  THE   POEMS    OP 

Of  early  youth,  but  silent,  one  by  one, 
Shall  drop  into  their  shrouds.     Some,  in  their  age, 
Ripe  for  the  sickle ;  others  young,  like  me, 
And  falling  green  beneath  the  untimely  stroke. 
Thus,  in  short  time,  in  the  churchyard  forlorn, 
Where  I  shall  lie,  my  friends  will  lay  them  down, 
And  dwell  with  me,  a  happy  family. 
And  oh !  thou  cruel,  yet  beloved  youth, 
Who  now  hast  left  me  hopeless  here  to  mourn, 
Do  thou  but  shed  one  tear  upon  my  corse 
And  say  that  I  was  gentle,  and  deserved 
A  better  lover,  and  I  shall  forgive 
All,  all  thy  wrongs ;  —  and  then  do  thou  forget 
The  hapless  Margaret,  and  be  as  blessed 
As  wish  can  make  thee  —  Laugh,  and  play,  and  sing 
With  thy  dear, choice,  and  never  think  of  me. 
Yet  hist,  I  hear  a  step.  —  In  this  dark  wood  — 


TO   A  FRIEND. 

WRITTEN  AT  A  VERY  EARLY  AGE. 

I  'VE  read,  my  friend,  of  Dioclesian, 
And  many  another  noble  Grecian, 
Who  wealth  and  palaces  resigned, 
In  cots  the  joys  of  peace  to  find ; 
Maximian's  meal  of  turnip-tops 
(Disgusting  food  to  dainty  chops) 


KIRKE    WHITE.  113 

I  Ve  also  read  of,  without  wonder ; 
But  such  a  cursed  egregious  blunder, 
As  that  a  man  of  wit  and  sense 
Should  leave  his  books  to  hoard  up  pence,  — 
Forsake  the  loved  Aonian  maids 
For  all  the  petty  tricks  of  trades, 
I  never,  either  now,  or  long  since, 
Have  heard  of  such  a  piece  of  nonsense ; 
That  one  who  learning's  joys  hath  felt, 
And  at  the  Muse's  altar  knelt, 
Should  leave  a  life  of  sacred  leisure 
To  taste  the  accumulating  pleasure ; 
And,  metamorphosed  to  an  alley  duck, 
Grovel  in  loads  of  kindred  muck. 
Oh !  't  is  beyond  my  comprehension ! 
A  courtier  throwing  up  his  pension,  — 
A  lawyer  working  without  a  fee,  — 
A  parson  giving  charity,  — 
A  truly  pious  methodist  preacher,  — 
Are  not,  egad,  so  out  of  nature. 
Had  nature  made  thee  half  a  fool, 
But  given  thee  wit  to  keep  a  school, 
I  had  not  stared  at  thy  backsliding : 
But  when  thy  wit  I  can  confide  in, 
When  well  I  know  thy  just  pretence 
To  solid  and  exalted  sense ; 
When  well  I  know  that  on  thy  head 
Philosophy  her  lights  hath  shed, 
I  stand  aghast !  thy  virtues  sum  to, 
I  wonder  what  this  world  will  come  to ! 
8 


114  THE   POEMS    OF 

Yet,  whence  this  strain  ?  shall  I  repine 
That  thou  alone  dost  singly  shine  ? 
Shall  I  lament  that  thou  alone, 
Of  men  of  parts,  hast  prudence  known  ? 


LINES 

ON  BEADING  THE  POEMS  OF  WARTON. 
AGE  FOURTEEN. 

OH,  Warton  !  to  thy  soothing  shell, 
Stretch'd  remote  in  hermit  cell, 
Where  the  brook  runs  babbling  by, 
For  ever  I  could  listening  lie  ; 
And  catching  all  the  muses'  fire, 
Hold  converse  with  the  tuneful  choir. 

What  pleasing  themes  thy  page  adorn, 
The  ruddy  streaks  of  cheerful  morn, 
The  pastoral  pipe,  the  ode  sublime, 
And  Melancholy's  mournful  chime ! 
Each  with  unwonted  graces  shines 
In  thy  ever  lovely  lines. 

Thy  muse  deserves  the  lasting  meed ; 
Attuning  sweet  the  Dorian  reed, 
Now  the  lovelorn  swain  complains, 
And  sings  his  sorrows  to  the  plains ; 
Now  the  sylvan  scenes  appear 
Through  all  the  changes  of  the  year ; 


fc  KIRKE   WHITE.  115 

Or  the  elegiac  strain 
Softly  sings  of  mental  pain, 
And  mournful  diapasons  sail 
On  the  faintly  dying  gale. 

But,  ah !  the  soothing  scene  is  o'er, 

On  middle  flight  we  cease  to  soar, 
For  now  the  muse  assumes  a  bolder  sweep, 
Strikes  on  the  lyric  string  her  sorrows  deep, 

In  strains  unheard  before. 
Now,  now  the  rising  fire  thrills  high, 
Now,  now  to  heaven's  high  realms  we  'fly, 

And  every  throne  explore : 
The  soul  entranced,  on  mighty  wings, 
With  all  the  poet's  heat  upsprings, 

And  loses  earthly  woes ; 
Till  all  alarmed  at  the  giddy  height, 
The  Muse  descends  on  gentler  flight, 

And  lulls  the  wearied  soul  to  soft  repose. 


FEAGMENT. 

THE  western  gale, 
Mild  as  the  kisses  of  connubial  love, 
Plays  round  my  languid  limbs,  as  all  dissolved, 
Beneath  the  ancient  elm's  fantastic  shade 
I  lie,  exhausted  with  the  noontide  heat : 
While  rippling  o'er  its  deep- worn  pebble  bed, 
The  rapid  rivulet  rushes  at  my  feet, 
Dispensing  coolness.     On  the  fringed  marge 


116  THE   POEMS    OF 

Full  many  a  floweret  rears  its  head,  —  or  pink, 
Or  gaudy  daffodil.     'Tis  here,  at  noon, 
The  buskined  wood-nymphs  from  the  heat  retire, 
And  lave  them  in  the  fountain ;  here  secure 
From  Pan,  or  savage  satyr,  they  disport : 
Or  stretched  supinely  on  the  velvet  turf, 
Lulled  by  the  laden  bee,  or  sultry  fly, 
Invoke  the  god  of  slumber.     .     .     . 

And,  hark !  how  merrily,  from  distant  tower, 
Ring  round  the  village  bells !  now  on  the  gale 
They  rise  with  gradual  swell,  distinct  and  loud ; 
Anon  they  die  upon  the  pensive  ear, 
Melting  in  faintest  music.     They  bespeak 
A  day  of  jubilee,  and  oft  they  bear, 
Commixed  along  the  unfrequented  shore, 
The  sound  of  village  dance  and  tabor  loud, 
Startling  the  musing  ear  of  Solitude. 

Such  is  the  jocund  wake  of  Whitsuntide, 
When  happy  Superstition,  gabbling  eld ! 
Holds  her  unhurtful  gambols.     All  the  day 
The  rustic  revellers  ply  the  mazy  dance 
On  the  smooth  shaven  green,  and  then  at  eve 
Commence  the  harmless  rites  and  auguries ; 
And  many  a  tale  of  ancient  days  goes  round. 

They  tell  of  wizard  seer,  whose  potent  spells 
Could  hold  in  dreadful  thrall  the  labouring  moon, 
Or  draw  the  fixed  stars  from  their  eminence, 
And  still  the  midnight  tempest.     Then  anon 
Tell  of  uncharnelled  spectres,  seen  to  glide 


KIRKE    WHITE.  117 

Along  the  lone  wood's  unfrequented  path, 
Startling  the  'nighted  traveller ;  while  the  sound 
Of  undistinguished  murmurs,  heard  to  come 
From  the  dark  centre  of  the  deepening  glen, 
Struck  on  his  frozen  ear. 

Oh,  Ignorance ! 

Thou  art  fallen  man's  best  friend !     With  thee  he 
In  frigid  apathy  along  his  way.  [speeds 

And  never  does  the  tear  of  agony 
Burn  down  his  scorching  cheek ;  or  the  keen  steel 
Of  wounded  feeling  penetrate  his  breast. 

E'en  now,  as  leaning  on  this  fragrant  bank, 
I  taste  of  all  the  keener  happiness 
Which  sense  refined  affords  —  e'en  now  my  heart 
Would  fain  induce  me  to  forsake  the  world, 
Throw  off  these  garments,  and  in  shepherd's  weeds, 
With  a  small  flock,  and  short  suspended  reed, 
To  sojourn  in  the  woodland.  —  Then  my  thought 
Draws  such  gay  pictures  of  ideal  bliss, 
That  I  could  almost  err  in  reason's  spite, 
And  trespass  on  my  judgment. 

Such  is  life : 

The  distant  prospect  always  seems  more  fair, 
And  when  attained,  another  still  succeeds, 
Far  fairer  than  before,  —  yet  compass'd  round 
With  the  same  dangers,  and  the  same  dismay. 
And  we  poor  pilgrims  in  this  dreary  maze, 
Still  discontented,  chase  the  fairy  form 
Of  unsubstantial  Happiness,  to  find, 
When  life  itself  is  sinking  in  the  strife, 
'Tis  but  an  airy  bubble  and  a  cheat. 


118  THE   POEMS    OF 


COMMENCEMENT  OF  A  POEM  ON  DESPAIR. 

SOME  to  Aonian  lyres  of  silver  sound 
"With  winning  elegance  attune  their  song, 
Form'd  to  sink  lightly  on  the  soothed  sense, 
And  charm  the  soul  with  softest  harmony : 
Tig  then  that  Hope  with  sanguine  eye  is  seen 
Roving  through  Fancy's  gay  futurity ; 
Her  heart  light  dancing  to  the  sounds  of  pleasure, 
Pleasure  of  days  to  come.     Memory,  too,  then 
Comes  with  her  sister,  Melancholy  sad, 
Pensively  musing  on  the  scenes  of  youth, 
Scenes  never  to  return.* 
Such  subjects  merit  poets  used  to  raise 
The  Attic  verse  harmonious ;  but  for  me 
A  deadlier  theme  demands  my  backward  hand, 
And  bids  me  strike  the  strings  of  dissonance 
With  frantic  energy. 
'Tis  wan  Despair  I  sing,  if  sing  I  can 
Of  him  before  whose  blast  the  voice  of  Song, 
And  Mirth,  and  Hope,  and  Happiness  all  fly, 
Nor  ever  dare  return.     His  notes  are  heard 
At  noon  of  night,  where,  on  the  coast  of  blood, 
The  lacerated  son  of  Angola 
Howls  forth  his  sufferings  to  the  moaning  wind ; 
And,  when  the  awful  silence  of  the  night 
Strikes  the  chill  death-dew  to  the  murderer's  heart, 
He  speaks  in  every  conscience-prompted  word 

*  Alluding  to  the  two  pleasing  poems,  the  Pleasures  of  Hope 
and  of  Memory. 


KIKKE   WHITE.  119 

Half  utter'd,  half  snppress'd. 

'Tis  him  I  sing  —  Despair  —  terrific  name, 

Striking  unsteadily  the  tremulous  chord 

Of  timorous  terror  —  discord  in  the  sound : 

For  to  a  theme  revolting  as  is  this, 

Dare  not  I  woo  the  maids  of  harmony, 

Who  love  to  sit  and  catch  the  soothing  sound 

Of  lyre  JEolian,  or  the  martial  bugle, 

Calling  the  hero  to  the  field  of  glory, 

And  firing  him  with  deeds  of  high  emprise 

And  warlike  triumph :  but  from  scenes  like  mine 

Shrink  they  affrighted,  and  detest  the  bard 

Who  dares  to  sound  the  hollow  tones  of  horror. 

Hence,  then,  soft  maids, 
And  woo  the  silken  zephyr  in  the  bowers 
By  Heliconia's  sleep-inviting  stream : 
For  aid  like  yours  I  seek  not;  'tis  for  powers 
Of  darker  hue  to  inspire  a  verse  like  mine ! 
'Tis  work  for  wizards,  sorcerers,  and  fiends. 

Hither,  ye  furious  imps  of  Acheron, 
Nurslings  of  hell,  and  beings  shunning  light, 
And  all  the  myriads  of  the  burning  concave : 
Souls  of  the  damned :  —  Hither,  oh !  come  and  join 
The  infernal  chorus.     'Tis  Despair  I  sing! 
He,  whose  sole  tooth  inflicts  a  deadlier  pang 
Than  all  your  tortures  join'd.     Sing,  sing  Despair ! 
Repeat  the  sound,  and  celebrate  his  power ; 
Unite  shouts,  screams,  and  agonizing  shrieks, 
Till  the  loud  paean  ring  through  hell's  high  vault, 
And  the  remotest  spirits  of  the  deep 
Leap  from  the  lake,  and  join  the  dreadful  song. 


120  THE   POEMS   OF 

THE  EVE  OF  DEATH. 

IRREGULAR. 

SILENCE  of  death  —  portentous  calm, 

Those  airy  forms  that  yonder  fly 
Denote  that  your  void  foreruns  a  storm, 

That  the  hour  of  fate  is  nigh. 
I  see,  I  see,  on  the  dim  mist  borne, 

The  Spirit  of  battles  rear  his  crest ! 
I  see,  I  see,  that  ere  the  morn, 

His  spear  will  forsake  its  hated  rest, 
And  the  widow'd  wife  of  Larrendill  will  beat  her 
naked  breast. 

O'er  the  smooth  bosom  of  the  sullen  deep, 

No  softly  ruffling  zephyrs  fly ; 
But  nature  sleeps  a  deathless  sleep, 

For  the  hour  of  battle  is  nigh. 
Not  a  loose  leaf  waves  on  the  dusky  oak, 

But  a  creeping  stillness  reigns  around ; 
Except  when  the  raven,  with  ominous  croak, 

On  the  ear  does  unwelcomely  sound. 
I  know,  I  know  what  this  silence  means ; 

I  know  what  the  raven  saith  — 
Strike,  oh,  ye  bards !  the  melancholy  harp, 

For  this  is  the  eve  of  death. 

Behold,  how  along  the  twilight  air 
The  shades  of  our  fathers  gh'de ! 


KIRKE    WHITE.  121 

There  Morven  fled,  with  the  blood-drenched  hair, 

And  Colma  with  gray  side. 
No  gale  around  its  coolness  flings, 

Yet  sadly  sigh  the  gloomy  trees ; 
And  hark !  how  the  harp's  unvisited  strings 

Sound  sweet,  as  if  swept  by  a  whispering  breeze! 
'Tis  done !  the  sun  he  has  set  in  blood ! 

He  will  never  .set  more  to  the  brave ; 
Let  us  pour  to  the  hero  the  dirge  of  death, 

For  to-morrow  he  hies  to  the  grave. 


THANATOS. 

OH  !  who  would  cherish  life, 

And  cling  unto  this  heavy  clog  of  clay, 
Love  this  rude  world  of  strife, 
Where  glooms  and  tempests  cloud  the  fairest  day ; 

And  where,  'neath  outward  smiles, 
Concealed  the  snake  lies  feeding  on  its  prey, 
Where  pitfalls  lie  in  every  flowery  way, 

And  sirens  lure  the  wanderer  to  their  wiles  1 
Hateful  it  is  to  me, 
Its  riotous  railings  and  revengeful  strife ; 

I'm  tired  with  all  its  screams  and  brutal  shouts 
Dinning  the  ear ;  —  away  —  away  with  life ! 
And  welcome,  oh !  thou  silent  maid, 
Who  in  some  foggy  vault  art  laid, 


122  THE   POEMS    OF 

Where  never  daylight's  dazzling  ray 

Comes  to  disturb  thy  dismal  sway ; 

And  there  amid  unwholesome  damps  dost  sleep, 

In  such  forgetful  slumbers  deep, 

That  all  thy  senses  stupefied 

Are  to  marble  petrified. 

Sleepy  Death,  I  welcome  thee ! 

Sweet  are  thy  calms  to  misery. 

Poppies  I  will  ask  no  more, 

Nor  the  fatal  hellebore ; 

Death  is  the  best,  the  only  cure, 

His  are  slumbers  ever  sure. 

Lay  me  in  the  Gothic  tomb, 

In  whose  solemn  fretted  gloom 

I  may  lie  in  mouldering  state, 

With  all  the  grandeur  of  the  great : 

Over  me,  magnificent, 

Carve  a  stately  monument ; 

Then  thereon  my  statue  lay, 

With  hands  in  attitude  to  pray, 

And  angels  serve  to  hold  my  head, 

Weeping  o'er  the  father  dead. 

Duly  too  at  close  of  day, 

Let  the  pealing  organ  play ; 

And  while  the  harmonious  thunders  roll, 

Chant  a  vesper  to  my  soul : 

Thus  how  sweet  my  sleep  wiU  be, 

Shut  out  from  thoughtful  misery ! 


KIRKE   WHITE.  123 


ATHANATOS. 

AWAY  with  Death  —  away 
With  all  her  sluggish  sleeps  and  chilling  damps, 

Impervious  to  the  day, 
Where  nature  sinks  into  inanity. 

How  can  the  soul  desire 
Such  hateful  nothingness  to  crave, 
And  yield  with  joy  the  wtal  fire 
To  moulder  in  the  grave ! 
Yet  mortal  life  is  sad, 
Eternal  storms  molest  its  sullen  sky ; 

And  sorrows  ever  rife 
Drain  the  sacred  fountain  dry  — 

Away  with  mortal  life ! 
But,  hail  the  calm  reality, 
The  seraph  Immortality ! 
Hail  the  heavenly  bowers  of  peace, 
Where  all  the  storms  of  passion  cease. 
Wild  life's  dismaying  struggle  o'er, 
The  wearied  spirit  weeps  no  more ; 
But  wears  the  eternal  smile  of  joy, 
Tasting  bliss  without  alloy. 
Welcome,  welcome,  happy  bowers, 
Where  no  passing  tempest  lowers ; 
But  the  azure  heavens  display 
The  everlasting  smile  of  day; 


124  THE   POEMS   OF 

Where  the  choral  seraph  choir 

Strike  to  praise  the  harmonious  lyre ; 

And  the  spirit  sinks  to  ease, 

Lull'd  by  distant  symphonies. 

Oh !  to  think  of  meeting  there 

The  friends  whose  graves  received  our  tear, 

The  daughter  loved,  the  wife  adored, 

To  our  widow'd  arms  restored ; 

And  all  the  joys  which  death  did  sever, 

Given  to  us  again  for  ever ! 

Who  would  cling  to  wretched  life, 

And  hug  the  poisoned  thorn  of  strife ; 

Who  would  not  long  from  earth  to  fly, 

A  sluggish  senseless  lump  to  lie, 

When  the  glorious  prospect  lies 

Full  before  his  raptured  eyes  ? 


MUSIC. 

WBITTEN  BETWEEN  THE  AGES  OF    FOURTEEN  AND 

FIFTEEN,   WITH  A  FEW  SUBSEQUENT 

VERBAL  ALTERATIONS. 

Music,  all  powerful  o'er  the  human  mind, 

Can  still  each  mental  storm,  each  tumult  calm, 

Soothe  anxious  care  on  sleepless  couch  reclined, 
And  e'en  fierce  Anger's  furious  rage  disarm. 

At  her  command  the  various  passions  lie ; 
She  stirs  to  battle,  or  she  lulls  to  peace ; 


KIRKE   WHITE.  125 

Melts  the  charm'd  soul  to  thrilling  ecstasy, 
And  bids  the  jarring  world's  harsh  clangour  cease. 

Her  martial  sounds  can  fainting  troops  inspire 
With  strength  unwonted,  and  enthusiasm  raise , 

Infuse  new  ardour,  and  with  youthful  fire 

Urge  on  the  warrior  gray  with  length  of  days. 

Far  better  she,  when,  with  her  soothing  lyre, 
She  charms  the  falchion  from  the  savage  grasp, 

And  melting  into  pity  vengeful  ire, 

Looses  the  bloody  breastplate's  iron  clasp. 

With  her  in  pensive  mood  I  long  to  roam, 
At  midnight's  hour,  or  evening's  calm  decline, 

And  thoughtful  o'er  the  falling  streamlet's  foam, 
In  calm  seclusion's  hermit  walks  recline. 

Whilst  mellow  sounds  from  distant  copse  arise, 
Of  softest  flute  or  reeds  harmonic  joined, 

With  rapture  thrilled  each  worldly  passion  dies, 
And  pleased  attention  claims  the  passive  mind. 

Soft  through  the  dell  the  dying  strains  retire, 
Then  burst  majestic  in  the  varied  swell ; 

Now  breathe  melodious  as  the  Grecian  lyre, 
Or  on  the  ear  in  sinking  cadence  dwell. 

Romantic  sounds !  such  is  the  bliss  ye  give,      [souL 
That  heaven's  bright  scenes  seem  bursting  on  the 

With  joy  I'd  yield  each  sensual  wish,  to  live 
For  ever  'neath  your  undefiled  control. 


126  THE   POEMS    OF 

Oh !  surely  melody  from  heaven  was  sent, 

To  cheer  the  soul  when  tired  with  human  strife, 

To  soothe  the  wayward  heart  by  sorrow  rent, 
And  soften  down  the  rugged  road  of  life. 


ON  BEING  CONFINED  TO   SCHOOL  ONE 
PLEASANT  MORNING  IN  SPUING. 

WKITTEN  AT  THE  AGE  OF  THIRTEEN. 

THE  morning  sun's  enchanting  rays 
Now  call  forth  every  songster's  praise ; 
Now  the  lark,  with  upward  flight, 
Gaily  ushers  in  the  light ; 
While  wildly  warbling  from  each  tree, 
The  birds  sing  songs  to  Liberty. 

But  for  me  no  songster  sings, 
For  me  no  joyous  lark  upsprings ; 
For  I,  confined  in  gloomy  school, 
Must  own  the  pedant's  iron  rule, 
And  far  from  sylvan  shades  and  bowers, 
In  durance  vile  must  pass  the  hours ; 
There  con  the  scholiast's  dreary  lines, 
Where  no  bright  ray  of  genius  shines, 
And  close  to  rugged  learning  cling, 
While  laughs  around  the  jocund  spring. 
How  gladly  would  my  soul  forego 
All  that  arithmeticians  know, 


KIRKE   WHITE.  127 

Or  stiff  grammarians  quaintly  teach, 
Or  all  that  industry  can  reach, 
To  taste  each  morn  of  all  the  joys 
That  with  the  laughing  sun  arise ; 
And  unconstrained  to  rove  along 
The  bushy  brakes  and  glens  among ; 
And  woo  the  muse's  gentle  power 
In  unfrequented  rural  bower : 
But,  ah !  such  heaven-approaching  joys 
"Will  never  greet  my  longing  eyes ; 
Still  will  they  cheat  in  vision  fine, 
Yet  never  but  in  fancy  shine. 

Oh,  that  I  were  the  little  wren 
That  shrilly  chirps  from  yonder  glen ! 
Oh,  far  away  I  then  would  rove 
To  some  secluded  bushy  grove ; 
There  hop  and  sing  with  careless  glee, 
Hop  and  sing  at  liberty ; 
And,  till  death  should  stop  my  lays, 
Far  from  men  would  spend  my  days. 


TO   CONTEMPLATION. 

WBITTEN  AT  THF  AGE  OF  FOUBTEEN. 

THEE  do  I  own,  the  prompter  of  my  joys, 
The  soother  of  my  cares,  inspiring  peace ; 
And  I  will  ne'er  forsake  thee.     Men  may  rave, 
And  blame  and  censure  me,  that  I  don't  tie 
My  every  thought  down  to  the  desk,  and  spend 


128  THE   POEMS   OF 

The  morning  of  my  life  in  adding  figures 

With  accurate  monotony  ;  that  so 

The  good  things  of  the  world  may  be  my  lot, 

And  I  may  taste  the  blessedness  of  wealth : 

But,  oh !  I  was  not  made  for  money  getting ; 

For  me  no  much  respected  plum  awaits, 

Nor  civic  honour,  envied.     For  as  still 

I  tried  to  cast  with  school  dexterity 

The  interesting  sums,  my  vagrant  thoughts 

Would  quick  revert  to  many  a  woodland  haunt, 

Which  fond  remembrance  cherished,  and  the  pen 

Dropp'd  from  my  senseless  fingers  as  I  pictured, 

In  my  mind's  eye,  how  on  the  shores  of  Trent 

I  erewhile  wandered  with  my  early  friends 

In  social  intercourse.     And  then  I'd  think 

How  contrary  pursuits  had  thrown  us  wide, 

One  from  the  other,  scattered  o'er  the  globe ; 

They  were  set  down  with  sober  steadiness, 

Each  to  his  occupation.     I  alone, 

A  wayward  youth,  misled  by  Fancy's  vagaries, 

Remained  unsettled,  insecure,  and  veering 

With  every  wind  to  every  point  of  the  compass. 

Yes,  in  the  counting-house  I  could  indulge 

In  fits  of  close  abstraction ;  yea,  amid 

The  busy  bustling  crowds  could  meditate, 

And  send  my  thoughts  ten  thousand  leagues  away 

Beyond  the  Atlantic,  resting  on  my  friend. 

Ay,  Contemplation,  even  in  earliest  youth 

I  woo'd  thy  heavenly  influence !     I  would  walk 

A  weary  way  when  all  my  toils  were  done, 


KIRKE    WHITE.  129 

To  lay  myself  at  night  in  some  lone  wood, 
And  hear  the  sweet  song  of  the  nightingale. 
Oh,  those  were  tunes  of  happiness,  and  still 
To  memory  doubly  dear ;  for  growing  years 
Had  not  then  taught  me  man  was  made  to  mourn ; 
And  a  short  hour  of  solitary  pleasure, 
Stolen  from  sleep,  was  ample  recompense 
For  all  the  hateful  bustles  of  the  day. 
My  opening  mind  was  ductile  then,  and  plastic, 
And  soon  the  marks  of  care  were  worn  away, 
While  I  was  swayed  by  every  novel  impulse, 
Yielding  to  all  the  fancies  of  the  hour. 
But  it  has  now  assumed  its  character ; 
Marked  by  strong  lineaments,  its  haughty  tone, 
Like  the  firm  oak,  would  sooner  break  than  bend. 
Yet  still,  O  Contemplation !  I  do  love 
To  indulge  thy  solemn  musings  ;  still  the  same, 
With  thee'  alone  I  know  to  melt  and  weep, 
In  thee  alorie  delighting.     Why  along 
The  dusky  track  of  commerce  should  I  toil, 
When,  with  an  easy  competence  content, 
I  can  alone  be  happy ;  where  with  thee 
I  may  enjoy  the  loveliness  of  Nature, 
And  loose  the  wings  of  Fancy  ?     Thus  alone 
Can  I  partake  of  happiness  on  earth ; 
And  to  be  happy  here  is  man's  chief  end, 
For  to  be  happy  he  must  needs  be  good. 
9 


130  THE   POEMS    OF 


MY  OWN  CHARACTER. 

ADDRESSED   (DURING  ILLNESS)  TO  A  LADY. 

DEAR  Fanny,  I  mean,  now  I'm  laid  on  the  shelf, 
To  give  you  a  sketch — ay,  a  sketch  of  myself. 
'Tis  a  pitiful  subject,  I  frankly  confess, 
And  one  it  would  puzzle  a  painter  to  dress  ; 
But,  however,  here  goes,  and  as  sure  as  a  gun, 
I'll  tell  all  my  faults  like  a  penitent  nun  ; 
For  I  know,  for  my  Fanny,  before  I  address  her, 
She  wont  be  a  cynical  father  confessor. 

Come,  come,  'twill  not  do !  put  that  curling  brow 

down; 

You  can't,  for  the  soul  of  you,  learn  how  to  frown. 
Well,  first  I  premise,  it's  my  honest  conviction, 
That  my  breast  is  a  chaos  of  all  contradiction ; 
Religious  —  deistic  —  now  loyal  and  warm  ; 
Then  a  dagger-drawn  democrat  hot  for  reform : 
This  moment  a  fop,  that,  sententious  as  Titus ; 
Democritus  now,  and  anon  Heraclitus ; 
Now  laughing  and  pleased,  like  a  child  with  a  rattle ; 
Then  vexed  to  the  soul  with  impertinent  tattle ; 
Now  moody  and  sad,  now  unthinking  and  gay, 
To  all  points  of  the  compass  I  veer  in  a  day. 

I'm  proud  and  disdainful  to  Fortune's  gay  child, 
But  to  Poverty's  offspring  submissive  and  mild ; 


KIRKE    WHITE.  *131 

As  rude  as  a  boor,  and  as  rough  in  dispute ; 
Then  as  for  politeness  —  oh !  dear  —  I'm  a  brute  I 
I  show  no  respect  where  I  never  can  feel  it ; 
And  as  for  contempt,  take  no  pains  to  conceal  it. 
And  so  in  the  suite,  by  these  laudable  ends, 
I  've  a  great  many  foes,  and  a  very  few  friends. 

Arid  yet,  my  dear  Fanny,  there  are  who  can  feel 
That  this  proud  heart  of  mine  is  not  fashioned  of 

steel. 

It  can  love  (can  it  not  ?)  —  it  can  hate,  I  am  sure ; 
And  it's  friendly  enough,  though  in  friends  it  be 

poor. 

For  itself  though  it  bleed  not,  for  others  it  bleeds ; 
If  it  have  not  ripe  virtues,  I'm  sure  it's  the  seeds; 
And  though  far  from  faultless,  or  even  so-so, 
I  think  it  may  pass  as  our  worldly  things  go. 

Well,  I  've  told  you  my  frailties  without  any  gloss ; 
Then  as  to  my  virtues,  I  'm  quite  at  a  loss ! 
I  think  I  'm  devout,  and  yet  I  can't  say, 
But  in  process  of  tune  I  may  get  the  wrong  way. 
I'm  a  general  lover,  if  that's  commendation, 
And  yet  can't  withstand  you  know  whose  fascination. 
But  I  find  that  amidst  all  my  tricks  and  devices, 
In  fishing  for  virtues,  I  'm  pulling  up  vices ; 
So  as  for  the  good,  why,  if  I  possess  it, 
I  am  not  yet  learned  enough  to  express  it. 

You  yourself  must  examine  the  lovelier  side, 
And  after  your  every  art  you  have  tried, 
Whatever  my  faults,  I  may  venture  to  say, 
Hypocrisy  never  will  come  in  your  way. 


132*  THE   POEMS    OF 

I  am  upright,  I  hope;  I'm  downrightj  I'm  clear! 
And  I  think  my  worst  foe  must  allow  I  'm  sincere ; 
And  if  ever  sincerity  glowed  in  my  breast, 
'T  is  now  when  I  swear .     . 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  WILFORD   CHUECHTARD. 

ON  RECOVERY  FROM   SICKNESS. 

HEBE  would  I  wish  to  sleep.     This  is  the  spot 
Which  I  have  long  mark'd  out  to  lay  my  bones  in. 
Tired  out  and  wearied  with  the  riotous  world, 
Beneath  this  yew  I  would  be  sepulchred. 
It  is  a  lovely  spot !     The  sultry  sun, 
From  his  meridian  height,  endeavours  vainly 
To  pierce  the  shadowy  foliage,  while  the  zephyr 
Comes  wafting  gently  o'er  the  rippling  Trent, 
And  plays  about  my  wan  cheek.     'T  is  a  nook 
Most  pleasant.     Such  a  one  perchance  did  Gray 
Frequent,  as  with  a  vagrant  muse  he  wantoned. 

Come,  I  will  sit  me  down  and  meditate, 
For  I  am  wearied  with  my  summer's  walk ; 
And  here  I  may  repose  in  silent  ease ; 
And  thus,  perchance,  when  life's  sad  journey 's  o'er, 
My  harassed  soul,  hi  this  same  spot,  may  find 
The  haven  of  its  rest — beneath  this  sod 
Perchance  may  sleep  it  sweetly,  sound  as  death. 

I  would  not  have  my  corpse  cemented  down 


KTRKE    WHITE.  133 

With  brick  and  stone,  defrauding  the  poor  earth- 

Of  its  predestined  dues ;  no,  I  would  lie          [worm 

Beneath  a  little  hillock,  grass  o'ergrown, 

Swath'd  down  with  osiers,  just  as  sleep  the  cotters. 

Yet  may  not  undistinguished  be  my  grave ; 

But  there  at  eve  may  some  congenial  soul 

Duly  resort,  and  shed  a  pious  tear, 

The  good  man's  benison  —  no  more  I  ask. 

And,  oh !  (if  heavenly  beings  may  look  down 

From  where,  with  cherubim,  inspired  they  sit, 

Upon  this  little  dim-discovered  spot, 

The  earth,)  then  will  I  cast  a  glance  below 

On  him  who  thus  my  ashes  shall  embalm ; 

And  I  will  weep  too,  and  will  bless  the  wanderer, 

Wishing  he  may  not  long  be  doom'd  to  pine 

In  this  low-thoughted  world  of  darkling  woe, 

But  that,  ere  long,  he  reach  his  kindred  skies. 

Yet 't  was  a  silly  thought,  as  if  the  body, 
Mouldering  beneath  the  surface  of  the  earth, 
Could  taste  the  sweets  of  summer  scenery, 
And  feel  the  freshness  of  the  balmy  breeze ! 
Yet  nature  speaks  within  the  human  bosom, 
And,  spite  of  reason,  bids  it  look  beyond 
His  narrow  verge  of  being,  and  provide 
A  decent  residence  for  its  clayey  shell, 
Endear'd  to  it  by  time.     And  who  would  lay 
His  body  in  the  city  burial-place, 
To  be  thrown  up  again  by  some  rude  sexton, 
And  yield  its  narrow  house  another  tenant, 
Ere  the  moist  flesh  had  mingled  with  the  dust, 


134  THE   POEMS    OF 

Ere  the  tenacious  hair  had  left  the  scalp, 

Exposed  to  insult  lewd,  and  wantonness  ? 

No,  I  will  lay  me  in  the  village  ground ; 

There  are  the  dead  respected.     The  poor  hind, 

Unlettered  as  he  is,  would  scorn  to  invade 

The  silent  resting  place  of  death.     I  've  seen 

The  labourer,  returning  from  his  toil, 

Here  stay  his  steps,  and  call  his  children  round, 

And  slowly  spell  the  rudely  sculptured  rhymes, 

And,  in  his  rustic  manner,  moralize. 

I  Ve  marked  with  what  a  silent  awe  he  'd  spoken, 

With  head  uncover'd,  his  respectful  manner, 

And  all  the  honours  which  he  paid  the  grave, 

And  thought  on  cities,  where  e'en  cemeteries, 

Bestrewed  with  all  the  emblems  of  mortality, 

Are  not  protected  from  the  drunken  insolence 

Of  wassailers  profane,  and  wanton  havoc. 

Grant,  Heaven,  that  here  my  pilgrimage  may  close  ! 

Yet,  if  this  be  denied,  where'er  my  bones 

May  lie  —  or  in  the  city's  crowded  bounds, 

Or  scattered  wide  o'er  the  huge  sweep  of  waters, 

Or  left  a  prey  on  some  deserted  shore 

To  the  rapacious  cormorant,  —  yet  still, 

(For  why  should  sober  reason  cast  away 

A  thought  which  soothes  the  soul  ?)  yet  still  my  spirit 

Shall  wing  its  way  to  these  my  native  regions, 

And  hover  o'er  this  spot.     Oh,  then  I  '11  think 

Of  times  when  I  was  seated  'neath  this  yew 

In  solemn  rumination  ;  and  will  smile 

With  joy  that  I  have  got  my  longed  release. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  135 


VERSES. 

THOU  base  repiner  at  another'?  joy, 

Whose  eye  turns  green  at  merit  not  thine  own, 
Oh,  far  away  from  generous  Britons  fly, 
And  find  on  meaner  climes  a  fitter  throne. 
Away,  away,  it  shall  not  be, 

Thou  shalt  not  dare  defile  our  plains ; 
The  truly  generous  heart  disdains 
Thy  meaner,  lowlier  fires,  while  he 
Joys  at  another's  joy,  and  smiles  at  other's  jollity. 

Triumphant    monster!    though    thy  schemes    suc- 
ceed— 

Schemes  laid  in  Acheron,  the  brood  of  night, 
Yet,  but  a  little  while,  and  nobly  freed, 

Thy  happy  victim  will  emerge  to  light ; 
When  o'er  his  head  in  silence  that  reposes 

Some  kindred  soul  shall  come  to  drop  a  tear ; 
Then  will  his  last  cold  pillow  turn  to  roses, 

Which  thou  hadst  planted  with  the  thorn  severe ; 
Then  will  thy  baseness  stand  confess'd,  and  all 
Will  curse  the  ungenerous  fate,  that  bade  a  Poet 
fall. 


136  THE   POEMS    OF 

LINES. 

YET,  ah !  thy  arrows  are  too  keen,  too  sure : 

Couldst  thou  not  pitch  upon  another  prey  ? 
Alas  !  in  robbing  him  thou  robb'st  the  poor, 

Who  only  boast  what  thou  wouldst  take  away. 
See  the  lone  Bard  at  midnight  study  sitting ; 

O'er  his  pale  features  streams  his  dying  lamp  ; 
While  o'er  fond  Fancy's  pale  perspective  flitting, 

Successive  forms  their  fleet  ideas  stamp. 
Yet  say,  is  bliss  upon  his  brow  impressed  ?       [li ve  ? 

Does  jocund  Health  in  Thought's  still  mansion 
Lo,  the  cold  dews  that  on  his  temples  rest, 

That  short  quick  sigh  —  their  sad  responses  give. 

And  canst  thou  rob  a  poet  of  his  song ; 

Snatch  from  the  bard  his  trivial  meed  of  praise  ? 
Small  are  his  gains,  nor  does  he  hold  them  long ; 

Then  leave,  oh,  leave  him  to  enjoy  his  lays 
While  yet  he  lives  —  for,  to  his  merits  just, 

Though  future  ages  join  his  fame  to  raise, 
Will  the  loud  trump  awake  his  cold  unheeding  dust  ? 


LINES. 


YES,  my  stray  steps  have  wandered,  wandered  far 
From  thee,  and  long,  heart-soothing  Poesy ! 
And  many  a  flower,  which  hi  the  passing  tune 
My  heart  hath  registered,  nipped  by  the  chill 


KIRKE     WHITE.  137 

Of  undeserved  neglect,  hath  shrunk  and  died. 
Heart-soothing  Poesy !     Though  thou  hast  ceased 
To  hover  o'er  the  many-voiced  strings 
Of  my  long  silent  lyre,  yet  thou  canst  still 
Call  the  warm  tear  from  its  thrice  hallowed  cell, 
And  with  recalled  images  of  bliss 
Warm  my  reluctant  heart.     Yes,  I  would  throw, 
Once  more  would  throw  a  quick  and  hurried  hand 
O'er  the  responding  chords.     It  hath  not  ceased  — 
It  cannot,  will  not  cease ;  the  heavenly  warmth 
Plays  round  my  heart,  and  mantles  o'er  my  cheek ; 
Still,  though  unbidden,  plays.     Fair  Poesy ! 
The  summer  and  the  spring,  the  wind  and  rain, 
Sunshine  and  storm,  with  various  interchange, 
Have  marked  full  many  a  day,  and  week,  and  month. 
Since  by  dark  wood,  or  hamlet  far  retired, 
Spell-struck,  with  thee  I  loitered.    Sorceress ! 
I  cannot  burst  thy  bonds.     It  is  but  lift 
Thy  blue  eyes  to  that  deep-bespangled  vault, 
Wreathe  thy  enchanted  tresses  round  thine  arm. 
And  mutter  some  obscure  and  charmed  rhyme, 
And  I  could  follow  thee,  on  thy  night's  work. 
Up  to  the  regions  of  thrice  chastened  fire, 
Or,  in  the  caverns  of  the  ocean  flood, 
Thrid  the  light  mazes  of  thy  volant  foot 
Yet  other  duties  call  me,  and  mine  ear 
Must  turn  away  from  the  high  minstrelsy 
Of  thy  soul-trancing  harp,  unwillingly 
Must  turn  away ;  there  are  severer  strains 
(And  surely  they  are  sweet  as  ever  smote 


138  THE   POEMS    OP 

The  ear  of  spirit,  from  this  mortal  coil 

Released  and  disembodied),  there  are  strains 

Forbid  to  all,  save  those  whom  solemn  thought, 

Through  the  probation  of  revolving  years, 

And  mighty  converse  with  the  spirit  of  truth, 

Have  purged  and  purified.     To  these  my  soul 

Aspireth ;  and  to  this  sublimer  end 

I  gird  myself,  and  climb  the  toilsome  steep 

"With  patient  expectation.     Yea,  sometimes 

Foretaste  of  bliss  rewards  me ;  and  sometimes 

Spirits  unseen  upon  my  footsteps  wait, 

And  minister  strange  music,  which  doth  seem 

Now  near,  now  distant,  now  on  high,  now  low, 

Then  swelling  from  all  sides,  with  bliss  complete, 

And  full  fruition  filling  all  the  soul. 

Surely  such  ministry,  though  rare,  may  soothe 

The  steep  ascent,  and  cheat  the  lassitude 

Of  toil ;  and  but  that  my  fond  heart 

Reverts  to  day-dreams  of  the  summer  gone, 

When  by  clear  fountain,  or  embower'd  brake, 

I  lay  a  listless  muser,  prizing,  far 

Above  ah1  other  lore,  the  poet's  theme ; 

But  for  such  recollections  I  could  brace 

My  stubborn  spirit  for  the  arduous  path 

Of  science  unregretting  ;  eye  afar 

Philosophy  upon  her  steepest  height, 

And  with  bold  step  and  resolute  attempt 

Pursue  her  to  the  innermost  recess, 

Where  throned  in  light  she  sits,  the  Queen  of  Truth. 


139 


THE  PEOSTITUTE. 

DACTYLICS. 

WOMAN  of  weeping  eye,  ah !  for  thy  wretched  lot, 
Putting  on  smiles  to  lure  the  lewd  passenger, 
Smiling  while  anguish  gnaws  at  thy  heavy  heart ; 

Sad  is  thy  chance,  thou  daughter  of  misery, 
Vice  and  disease  are  wearing  thee  fast  away, 
While  the  unfeeling  ones  sport  with  thy  sufferings. 

Destined  to  pamper  the  vicious  one's  appetite, 
Spurned  by  the  beings  who  lured  thee  from  inno- 
cence, 
Sinking  unnoticed  in  sorrow  and  indigence, 

Thou  hast  no  friends,  for  they  with  thy  virtue  fled ; 
Thou  art  an  outcast  from  house  and  from  happiness, 
Wandering  alone  on  the  wide  world's  unfeeling  stage ! 

Daughter  of  misery,  sad  is  thy  prospect  here ; 
Thou  hast  no  friend  to  soothe  down  the  bed  of  death ; 
None  after  thee  inquires  with  solicitude ; 

Famine  and  fell  disease  shortly  will  wear  thee  down, 
Yet  thou  hast  still  to  brave  often  the  winter's  wind, 
Loathsome  to  those  thou  wouldst  court  with  thine 
hollow  eyes. 


140  THE   POEMS    OF 

Soon  thou  wilt  sink  into  death's  silent  slumbering, 

And  not  a  tear  shall  fall  on  thy  early  grave, 

Nor  shall  a  single  stone  tell  where  thy  bones  are  laid. 

Once  wert  thou  happy  —  thou  wert  once  innocent ; 
But  the  seducer  beguiled  thee  in  artlessness, 
Then  he  abandoned  thee  unto  thine  infamy. 

Now  he  perhaps  is  reclined  on  a  bed  of  down : 

But  if  a  wretch  like  him  sleeps  in  security, 

God  of  the  red  right  arm !  where  is  thy  thunder-bolt? 


KIRKE    WHITE.  141 


ODES. 

V 

TO    MY    LYRE. 

THOU  simple  Lyre !  thy  music  wild 

Has  served  to  charm  the  weary  hour, 
And  many  a  lonely  night  has  'guiled, 
When  even  pain  has  own'd,  and  smiled, 
Its  fascinating  power. 

Yet,  O  my  Lyre !  the  busy  crowd 

Will  little  heed  thy  simple  tones ; 
Them  mightier  minstrels  harping  loud 
Engross,  —  and  thou  and  I  must  shroud 
Where  dark  oblivion  'thrones. 

No  hand,  thy  diapason  o'er, 

Well  skill'd  I  throw  with  sweep  sublime ; 
For  me,  no  academic  lore 
Has  taught  the  solemn  strain  to  pour, 

Or  build  the  polished  rhyme. 

Yet  thou  to  sylvan  themes  canst  soar ; 

Thou  know*st  to  charm  the  woodland  train ; 
The  rustic  swains  believe  thy  power 
Can  hush  the  wild  winds  when  they  roar, 

And  still  the  billowy  main. 


142  THE   POEMS    OF 

These  honours,  Lyre,  we  yet  may  keep. 

I,  still  unknown,  may  live  with  thee, 
And  gentle  zephyr's  wing  will  sweep 
Thy  solemn  string,  where  low  I  sleep, 

Beneath  the  alder  tree. 

This  little  dirge  will  please  me  more 

Than  the  full  requiem's  swelling  peal ; 
I'd  rather  than  that  crowds  should  sigh 
For  me,  that  from  some  kindred  eye 
The  trickling  tear  should  steal. 

Yet  dear  to  me  the  wreath  of  bay, 

Perhaps  from  me  debarred ; 
And  dear  to  me  the  classic  zone, 
Which,  snatched  from  learning's  labour'd  throne, 

Adorns  the  accepted  bard. 

And  0 !  'if  yet  'twere  mine  to  dwell 

Where  Cam  or  Isis  winds  along, 
Perchance,  inspired  with  ardour  chaste, 
I  yet  might  call  the  ear  of  taste 

To  listen  to  my  song. 

Oh !  then,  my  little  friend,  thy  style 

I  'd  change  to  happier  lays, 
Oh !  then  the  cloistered  glooms  should  smile, 
And  through  the  long,  the  fretted  aisle 

Should  swell  the  note  of  praise. 


KIKKE    WHITE.  143 


TO  AN  EARLY  PRIMROSE. 

MILD  offspring  of  a  dark  and  sullen  sire ! 
Whose  modest  form,  so  delicately  fine, 

Was  nursed  in  whirling  storms, 

And  cradled  in  the  winds. 

Thee  when  young  spring  first  questioned  winter's 

sway, 
And  dared  the  sturdy  blusterer  to  the  fight, 

Thee  on  this  bank  he  threw 

To  mark  his  victory. 

In  this  low  vale,  the  promise  of  the  year, 
Serene  thou  openest  to  the  nipping  gale, 

Unnoticed  and  alone, 

Thy  tender  elegance. 

So  virtue  blooms ;  brought  forth  amid  the  storms 
Of  chill  adversity,  in  some  lone  walk 

Of  life  she  rears  her  head, 

Obscure  and  unobserved ; 

While  every  bleaching  breeze  that  on  her  blows 
Chastens  her  spotless  purity  of  breast, 

And  hardens  her  to  bear 

Serene  the  ills  of  life. 


144  THE  POEMS   OP 


ODE  ADDRESSED  TO  H.  FUSELI,  Esq.   R.  A. 

^ON   SEEING   ENGRAVINGS  FROM  HIS  DESIGNS. 

MIGHTY  magician !  who  on  Torneo's  brow, 

When  sullen  tempests  wrap  the  throne  of  night, 
Art  wont  to  sit  and  catch  the  gleam  of  light 

That  shoots  athwart  the  gloom  opaque  btlow ; 

And  listen  to  the  distant  death-shriek  long 
From  lonely  mariner  foundering  in  the  deep, 
Which  rises  slowly  up  the  rocky  steep, 

While  the  weird  sisters  weave  the  horrid  song  • 
Or,  when  along  the  liquid  sky 
Serenely  chant  the  orbs  on  high, 
Dost  love  to  sit  in  musing  trance, 
And  mark  the  northern  meteor's  dance 
(While  far  below  the  fitful  oar 
Flings  its  faint  pauses  on  the  steepy  shore), 
And  list  the  music  of  the  breeze, 
That  sweeps  by  fits  the  bending  seas ; 
And  often  bears  with  sudden  swell 
The  shipwrecked  sailor's  funeral  knell, 
By  the  spirits  sung,  who  keep 
Their  night-watch  on  the  treacherous  deep, 
And  guide  the  wakeful  helmsman's  eye 
To  Helice  in  northern  sky ; 
And  there  upon  the  rock  reclined 
With  mighty  visions  fill'st  the  mind, 


KIKKE    WHITE.  145 

Such  as  bound  in  magic  spell 
Him  *  who  grasp'd  the  gates  of  Hell, 
And,  bursting  Pluto's  dark  domain, 
Held  to  the  day  the  terrors  of  his  reign. 

Genius  of  Horror  and  romantic  awe ! 
Whose  eye  explores  the  secrets  of  the  deep, 
Whose  power  can  bid  the  rebel  fluids  creep, 

Can  force  the  inmost  soul  to  own  its  law ; 
Who  shall  now,  sublimest  spirit, 
Who  shall  now  thy  wand  inherit, 
From  him  f  thy  darling  child  who  best 
Thy  shuddering  images  expressed  ? 
Sullen  of  soul,  and  stern,  and  proud, 
His  gloomy  spirit  spurned  the  crowd, 
And  now  he  lays  his  aching  head 

In  the  dark  mansion  of  the  silent  dead. 

Mighty  magician !  long  thy  wand  has  lain 
Buried  beneath  the  unfathomable  deep ; 
And  oh !  for  ever  must  its  efforts  sleep, 

May  none  the  mystic  sceptre  e'er  regain  ? 
Oh,  yes,  'tis  his !     Thy  other  son  ! 
He  throws  thy  dark-wrought  tunic  on, 
Fuesslin  waves  thy  wand,  —  again  they  rise, 
Again  thy  wildering  forms  salute  our  ravish'd 

Him  didst  thou  cradle  on  the  dizzy  steep  [eyes. 
Where  round  his  head  the  vollied  lightnings  flung, 
And  the  loud  winds  that  round  his  pillow  rung 

Woo'd  the  stern  infant  to  the  arms  of  sleep  ; 

*  Dante.  t  Dante. 

10 


146  THK   POEMS    OP 

Or  on  the  highest  top  of  Teneriffe 
Seated  the  fearless  boy,  and  bade  him  look 

Where  far  below  the  weather-beaten  skiff 
On  the  gulf  bottom  of  the  ocean  strook. 
Thou  mark'dst  him  drink  with  ruthless  ear 

The  death-sob,  and,  disdaining  rest, 
Thou  saVst  how  danger  fired  his  breast, 
And  in  his  young  hand  couched  the  visionary  spear. 
Then,  Superstition,  at  thy  call, 
She  bore  the  boy  to  Odin's  Hall, 
And  set  before  his  awe-struck  sight 
The  savage  feast  and  spectred  fight ; 
And  summoned  from  his  mountain  tomb 
The  ghastly  warrior  son  of  gloom, 
His  fabled  runic  rhymes  to  sing, 
While  fierce  Hresvelger  flapped  his  wing ; 
Thou  show'dst  the  trains  the  shepherd  sees, 
Laid  on  the  stormy  Hebrides, 
Which  on  the  mists  of  evening  gleam, 
Or  crowd  the  foaming  desert  stream ; 
Lastly  her  storied  hand  she  waves, 
And  lays  him  in  Florentian  caves ; 
There  milder  fables,  lovelier  themes, 
Enwrap  his  soul  in  heavenly  dreams, 
There  pity's  lute  arrests  his  ear, 
And  draws  the  half  reluctant  tear ; 
And  now  at  noon  of  night  he  roves 
Along  the  embowering  moonlight  groves, 
And  as  from  many  a  caverned  dell 
The  hollow  wind  is  heard  to  swell, 


KTRKE   WHITE.  '    147 

He  thinks  some  troubled  spirit  sighs, 
And  as  upon  the  turf  he  lies, 
Where  sleeps  the  silent  beam  of  night, 
He  sees  below  the  gliding  sprite, 
And  hears  in  Fancy's  organs  sound 
Aerial  music  warbling  round. 

Taste  lastly  comes  and  smooths  the  whole, 
And  breathes  her  polish  o'er  his  soul ; 
Glowing  with  wild,  yet  chastened  heat, 
The  wondrous  work  is  now  complete. 

The  Poet  dreams  :  —  the  shadow  flies, 

And  faulting  fast  its  image  dies. 

But  lo !  the  Painter's  magic  force 

Arrests  the  phantom's  fleeting  course ; 

It  lives  —  it  lives  —  the  canvas  glows, 

And  tenfold  vigour  o'er  it  flows. 
The  Bard  beholds  the  work  achieved, 

And  as  he  sees  the  shadow  rise 

Sublime  before  his  wondering  eyes, 
Starts  at  the  image  his  own  mind  conceived. 


TO  THE  EARL  OF  CARLISLE,  K  G. 

I.  1. 
RETIRED,  remote  from  human  noise, 

An  humble  Poet  dwelt  serene ; 
His  lot  was  lowly,  yet  his  joys 
Were  manifold,  I  ween. 


148    '  THE   POEMS    OF 

He  laid  him  by  the  brawling  brook    • 
At  eventide  to  ruminate, 

He  watch'd  the  swallow  skimming  round, 
And  mused,  in  reverie  profound, 
On  wayward  man's  unhappy  state, 
And  pondered  much,  and  paused  on  deeds  of  ancient 
date. 

H.  i. 

"  Oh,  'twas  not  always  thus,"  he  cried, 

"  There  was  a  tune,  when  genius  claimed 
Respect  from  even  towering  pride, 

Nor  hung  her  head  ashamed : 
But  now  to  wealth  alone  we  bow, 

The  titled  and  the  rich  alone 
Are  honour'd,  while  meek  Merit  pines, 
On  penury's  wretched  couch  reclines, 
Unheeded  in  his  dying  moan,  [known. 

As,  overwhelmed  with  want  and  woe,  he  sinks  un- 

m.  1. 

"  Yet  was  the  muse  not  always  seen 
In  poverty's  dejected  mien, 
Not  always  did  repining  rue, 
And  misery  her  steps  pursue. 
Time  was,  when  nobles  thought  their  titles  graced 
By  the  sweet  honours  of  poetic  bays, 
When  Sidney  sung  his  melting  song, 
When  Sheffield  joined  the  harmonious  throng, 
And  Lyttelton  attuned  to  love  his  lays. 


KIKKE   WHITE.  149 

Those  days  are  gone  —  alas,  for  ever  gone ! 

No  more  our  nobles  love  to  grace 
Their  brows  with  anadems,  by  genius  won, 
But  arrogantly  deem  the  muse  as  base ; 
How  differently  thought  the  sires  of  this  degenerate 
race!" 

I.  2. 

Thus  sang  the  minstrel :  —  still  at  eve 

The  upland's  woody  shades  among 
In  broken  measures  did  he  grieve, 

With  solitary  song. 
And  still  his  shame  was  aye  the  same, 

Neglect  had  stung  him  to  the  core ; 
And  he  with  pensive  joy  did  love 
To  seek  the  still  congenial  grove, 

And  muse  on  all  his  sorrows  o'er, 
And  vow  that  he  would  join  the  abjured  world  no 
more. 

H.  2. 

But  human  vows,  how  frail  they  be ! 

Fame  brought  Carlisle  unto  his  view, 
And  all  amazed,  he  thought  to  see 

The  Augustan  age  anew. 
Fill'd  with  wild  rapture,  up  he  rose, 
No  more  he  ponders  on  the  woes 
Which  erst  he  felt  that  forward  goes, 

Regrets  he'd  sunk  in  impotence, 
And  hails  the  ideal  day  of  virtuous  eminence. 


150  THE   POEMS   OP 

HI.   2. 

Ah !  silly  man,  yet  smarting  sore 
"With  ills  which  in  the  world  he  bore, 
Again  on  futile  hope  to  rest, 
An  unsubstantial  prop  at  best, 
And  not  to  know  one  swallow  makes  no  summer  I 

Ah !  soon  he'll  find  the  brilliant  gleam, 
Which  flashed  across  the  hemisphere, 
Illumining  the  darkness  there, 

Was  but  a  single  solitary  beam, 
While  all  around  remained  in  custom'd  night 

Still  leaden  ignorance  reigns  serene, 
In  the  false  court's  delusive  height, 

And  only  one  Carlisle  is  seen 

To  illume  the  heavy  gloom  with  pure  and  steady 
light. 


TO    CONTEMPLATION. 

COME,  pensive  sage,  who  lovest  to  dwell 
In  some  retired  Lapponian  cell, 
Where,  far  from  noise  and  riot  rude, 
Besides  sequestered  solitude. 
Come,  and  o'er  my  longing  soul 
Throw  thy  dark  and  russet  stole, 
And  open  to  my  duteous  eyes 
The  volume  of  thy  mysteries. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  151 

I  will  meet  thee  on  the  hill, 
Where,  with  printless  footsteps  still, 
The  morning  in  her  buskin  gray 
Springs  upon  her  eastern  way ; 
While  the  frolic  zephyrs  stir, 
Playing  with  the  gossamer, 
And,  on  ruder  pinions  borne, 
Shake  the  dewdrops  from  the  thorn. 
There,  as  o'er  the  fields  we  pass, 
Brushing  with  hasty  feet  the  grass, 
We  will  startle  from  her  nest 
The  lively  lark  with  speckled  breast, 
And  hear,  the  floating  clouds  among 
Her  gale-transported  matin  song, 
Or  on  the  upland  stile,  embowered 
With  fragrant  hawthorn  snowy  flowered, 
Will  sauntering  sit,  and  listen  still 
To  the  herdsman's  oaten  quill, 
Wafted  from  the  plain  below ; 
Or  the  heifer's  frequent  low ; 
Or  the  milkmaid  in  the  grove, 
Singing  of  one  that  died  for  love. 
Or  when  the  noontide  heats  oppress, 
We  will  seek  the  dark  recess, 
Where,  in  the  embowered  translucent  stream, 
The  cattle  shun  the  sultry  beam, 
And  o'er  us  on  the  marge  reclined, 
The  drowsy  fly  her  horn  shall  wind, 
While  echo,  from  her  ancient  oak, 
Shall  answer  to  the  woodman's  stroke ; 


152  THE   POEMS    OP 

Or  the  little  peasant's  song, 
"Wandering  lone  the  glens  among, 
His  artless  lip  with  berries  dyed, 
And  feet  through  ragged  shoes  descried. 
But  oh !  when  evening's  virgin  queen 
Sits  on  her  fringed  throne  serene, 
And  mingling  whispers  rising  near 
Steal  on  the  still  reposing  ear ; 
While  distant  brooks  decaying  round, 
Augment  the  mixed  dissolving  sound, 
And  the  zephyr  flitting  by 
Whispers  mystic  harmony, 
We  will  seek  the  woody  lane, 
By  the  hamlet,  on  the  plain, 
Where  the  weary  rustic  nigh 
Shall  whistle  his  wild  melody, 
And  the  croaking  wicket  oft 
Shall  echo  from  the  neighbouring  croft ; 
And  as  we  trace  the  green  path  lone, 
With  moss  and  rank  weeds  overgrown, 
We  will  muse  on  pensive  lore, 
Till  the  full  soul,  brimming  o'er, 
Shall  in  our  upturned  eyes  appear, 
Embodied  in  a  quivering  tear. 
Or  else,  serenely  silent,  sit 
By  the  brawling  rivulet, 
Which  on  its  calm  unruffled  breast 
Rears  the  old  mossy  arch  impressed, 
That  clasps  its  secret  stream  of  glass, 
Half  hid  in  shrubs  and  waving  grass, 


KIKKE   WHITE.  153 

The  wood-nymph's  lone  secure  retreat, 
Unpress'd  by  fawn  or  sylvan's  feet, 
We  '11  watch  in  eve's  ethereal  braid 
The  rich  vermilion  slowly  fade ; 
Or  catch,  faint  twinkling  from  afar 
The  first  glimpse  of  the  eastern  star ; 
Fair  Vesper,  mildest  lamp  of  light, 
That  heralds  in  imperial  night : 
Meanwhile,  upon  our  wondering  ear, 
Shall  rise,  though  low,  yet  sweetly  clear, 
The  distant  sounds  of  pastoral  lute, 
Invoking  soft  the  sober  suit 
Of  dimmest  darkness  —  fitting  well 
With  love,  or  sorrow's  pensive  spell, 
(So  erst  did  music's  silver  tone 
Wake  slumbering  Chaos  on  his  throne). 
And  haply  then,  with  sudden  swell, 
Shall  roar  the  distant  curfew  bell, 
While  in  the  castle's  mouldering  tower 
The  hooting  owl  is  heard  to  pour 
Her  melancholy  song,  and  scare 
Dull  silence  brooding  in  the  air. 
Meanwhile  her  dusk  and  slumbering  car 
Black-suited  night  drives  on  from  far, 
And  Cynthia,  'merging  from  her  rear, 
Arrests  the  waxing  darkness  drear, 
And  summons  to  her  silent  call, 
Sweeping,  in  their  airy  pall, 
The  unshrived  ghosts,  in  fairy  trance, 
To  join  her  moonshine  morris-dance ; 


154  THE   POEMS    OF 

While  around  the  mystic  ring 
The  shadowy  shapes  elastic  spring, 
Then  with  a  passing  shriek  they  fly, 
Wrapt  in  mists,  along  the  sky, 
And  oft  are  by  the  shepherd  seen 
In  his  lone  night-watch  on  the  green. 
Then,  hermit,  let  us  turn  our  feet 
To  the  low  abbey's  still  retreat, 
Embowered  in  the  distant  glen, 
Far  from  the  haunts  of  busy  men, 
Where  as  we  sit  upon  the  tomb, 
The  glowworm's  light  may  gild  the  gloom, 
And  show  to  fancy's  saddest  eye 
Where  some  lost  hero's  ashes  lie. 
And  oh,  as  through  the  mouldering  arch, 
With  ivy  filled  and  weeping  larch, 
The  night  gale  whispers  sadly  clear, 
Speaking  dear  things  to  fancy's  ear, 
We'll  hold  communion  with  the  shade 
Of  some  deep  wailing,  ruined  maid  — 
Or  call  the  ghost  of  Spenser  down, 
To  tell  of  woe  and  fortune's  frown ; 
And  bid  us  cast  the  eye  of  hope 
Beyond  this  bad  world's  narrow  scope. 
Or  if  these  joys,  to  us  denied, 
To  linger  by  the  forest's  side ; 
Or  in  the  meadow,  or  the  wood, 
Or  by  the  lone,  romantic  flood ; 
Let  us  in  the  busy  town, 
When  sleep's  dull  streams  the  people  drown, 


KIKKE   WHITE.  155 

Far  from  drowsy  pillows  flee, 

And  turn  the  church's  massy  key ; 

Then,  as  through  the  painted  glass 

The  moon's  faint  beams  obscurely  pass, 

And  darkly  on  the  trophied  wall 

Her  faint,  ambiguous  shadows  fall, 

Let  us,  while  the  faint  winds  wail 

Through  the  long  reluctant  aisle, 

As  we  pace  with  reverence  meet, 

Count  the  echoings  of  our  feet, 

While  from  the  tombs,  with  confessed  breath, 

Distinct  responds  the  voice  of  death. 

If  thou,  mild  sage,  wilt  condescend 

Thus  on  my  footsteps  to  attend, 

To  thee  my  lonely  lamp  shall  burn 

By  fallen  Genius'  sainted  urn, 

As  o'er  the  scroll  of  Time  I  pore, 

And  sagely  spell  of  ancient  lore, 

Till  I  can  rightly  guess  of  ah" 

That  Plato  could  to  memory  call, 

And  scan  the  formless  views  of  things ; 

Or,  with  old  Egypt's  fetter'd  kings, 

Arrange  the  mystic  trains  that  shine 

In  night's  high  philosophic  mine ; 

And  to  thy  name  shall  e'er  belong 

The  honours  of  undying  song. 


156  THE   POEMS    OF 


TO  THE  GENIUS  OF  ROMANCE. 

OH  !  thou  who,  in  my  early  youth, 
When  fancy  wore  the  garb  of  truth, 
Wert  wont  to  win  my  infant  feet 
To  some  retired,  deep-fabled  seat, 
Where,  by  the  brooklet's  secret  tide, 
The  midnight  ghost  was  known  to  glide ; 
Or  lay  me  in  some  lonely  glade, 
In  native  Sherwood's  forest  shade, 
Where  Robin  Hood,  the  outlaw  bold, 
Was  wont  his  sylvan  courts  to  hold ; 
And  there,  as  musing  deep  I  lay, 
Would  steal  my  little  soul  away, 
And  all  my  pictures  represent, 
Of  siege  and  solemn  tournament ; 
Or  bear  me  to  the  magic  scene, 
Where,  clad  in  greaves  and  gabardine, 
The  warrior  knight  of  chivalry 
Made  many  a  fierce  enchanter  flee ; 
And  bore  the  high-born  dame  away, 
Long  held  the  fell  magician's  prey. 
Or  oft  would  tell  the  shuddering  tale 
Of  murders,  and  of  goblins  pale, 
Haunting  the  guilty  baron's  side 
(Whose  floors  with  secret  blood  were  dyed), 
Which  o'er  the  vaulted  corridor 
On  stormy  nights  was  heard  to  roar, 


KIBKE   WHITE.  157 

By  old  domestic,  wakened  wide 
By  the  angry  winds  that  chide : 
Or  else  the  mystic  tale  would  tell 
Of  Greensleeve,  or  of  Blue-Beard  felL 


TO  MIDNIGHT. 

SEASON  of  general  rest,  whose  solemn  still 
Strikes  to  the  trembling  heart  a  fearful  chill, 

But  speaks  to  philosophic  souls  delight ; 
Thee  do  I  hail,  as  at  my  casement  high, 
My  candle  waning  melancholy  by, 

I  sit  and  taste  the  holy  calm  of  night. 

Yon  pensive  orb,  that  through  the  ether  sails, 
And  gilds  the  misty  shadows  of  the  vales, 

Hanging  hi  thy  dull  rear  her  vestal  flame ; 
To  her,  while  all  around  in  sleep  recline, 
Wakeful  I  raise  my  orisons  divine, 

And  sing  the  gentle  honours  of  her  name ; 

While  Fancy  lone  o'er  me,  her  votary,  bends, 
To  lift  my  soul  her  fairy  visions  sends, 

And  pours  upon  my  ear  her  thrilling  song, 
And  Superstition's  gentle  terrors  come,  — 
See,  see  yon  dim  ghost  gliding  through  the  gloom ! 

See  round  yon  churchyard  elm  what  spectres 
throng  1 


158  THE   POEMS    OF 

Meanwhile  I  tune,  to  some  romantic  lay, 
My  flageolet — and  as  I  pensive  play, 

The  sweet  notes  echo  o'er  the  mountain  scene : 
The  traveller  late  journeying  o'er  the  moors, 
Hears  them  aghast,  —  (while  still  the  dull  owl  pours 

Her  hollow  screams  each  dreary  pause  between). 

Till  in  the  lonely  tower  he  spies  the  light, 
Now  faintly  flashing  on  the  glooms  of  night, 

Where  I,  poor  muser,  my  lone  vigils  keep, 
And,  'mid  the  dreary  solitude  serene, 
Cast  a  much-meaning  glance  upon  the  scene, 

And  raise  my  mournful  eye  to  Heaven,  and  weep. 


TO  THOUGHT. 

WRITTEN  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

HENCE,  away,  vindictive  thought ; 

Thy  pictures  are  of  pain ; 
.  The  visions  through  thy  dark  eye  caught, 
They  with  no  gentle  charms  are  fraught, 
So  pr'ythee  back  again. 
I  would  not  weep, 
I  wish  to  sleep, 
Then  why,  thou  busy  foe,  with  me  thy  vigils  keep  ? 

Why  dost  o'er  bed  and  couch  recline  ? 

Is  this  thy  new  delight  ? 
Pale  visitant,  it  is  not  thine 
To  keep  thy  sentry  through  the  mine, 


KIKKE   WHITE.  159 

The  dark  vault  of  the  night : 
'Tis  thine  to  die, 
While  o'er  the  eye 
The  dews  of  slumber  press,  and  waking  sorrows  fly. 

Go  thou,  and  bide  with  him  who  guides 

His  bark  through  lonely  seas ; 
And  as  reclining  on  his  helm, 
Sadly  he  marks  the  starry  realm, 
To  him  thou  mayst  bring  ease : 
But  thou  to  me 

Art  misery,  [my  pillow  flee. 

So  pr'ythee,  pr'ythee,  plume  thy  wings,  and  from 

And,  memory,  pray  what  art  thou  ? 

Art  thou  of  pleasure  born  ? 
Does  bliss  untainted  from  thee  flow  ? 
The  rose  that  gems  thy  pensive  brow, 
Is  it  without  a  thorn  ? 
With  all  thy  smiles, 

And  witching  wiles,  [defiles . 

Yet  not  unfrequent  bitterness  thy  mournful  sway 

The  drowsy  night-watch  has  forgot 

To  call  the  solemn  hour ; 
Lull'd  by  the  winds,  he  slumbers  deep, 
While  I  in  vain,  capricious  sleep, 
Invoke  thy  tardy  power ; 
And  restless  lie, 
With  unclosed  eye, 
And  count  the  tedious  hours  as  slow  they  minute  by 


160  THE   POEMS    OF 


GENIUS. 


i  L1* 

MANY  there  be,  who,  through  the  vale  of  life, 

"With  velvet  pace,  unnoticed,  softly  go, 
While  jarring  discord's  inharmonious  strife 

Awakes  them  not  to  woe. 
By  them  unheede.d,  carking  care, 
Green-eyed  grief  and  dull  despair  ; 
Smoothly  they  pursue  their  way, 

With  even  tenor  and  with  equal  breath, 
Alike  through  cloudy  and  through  sunny  day, 

Then  sink  in  peace  to  death. 


But,  ah  !  a  few  there  be  whom  griefs  devour, 

And  weeping  woe,  and  disappointment  keen, 
Repining  penury,  and  sorrow  sour, 

And  self-consuming  spleen. 
And  these  are  Genius'  favourites  :  these 
Know  the  thought-throned  mind  to  please, 
And  from  her  fleshy  seat  to  draw 

To  realms  where  Fancy's  golden  orbits  roll, 
Disdaining  all  but  'wildering  rapture's  law, 
The  captivated  soul. 


KIKKE    WHITE.  161 


m.  i. 

Genius,  from  thy  starry  throne, 
High  above  the  burning  zone, 
In  radiant  robe  of  light  arrayed, 
Oh !  hear  the  plaint  by  thy  sad  favourite  made ! 

His  melancholy  moan ! 
He  tells  of  scorn,  he  tells  of  broken  vows, 

Of  sleepless  nights,  of  anguish-ridden  days, 
Pangs  that  his  sensibility  uprouse 

To  curse  his  being  and  his  thirst  for  praise. 
Thou  gav'st  to  him  with  treble  force  to  feel 

The  sting  of  keen  neglect,  the  rich  man's  scorn, 
And  what  o'er  all  does  in  his  soul  preside 

Predominant,  and  tempers  him  to  steel, 
His  high  indignant  pride. 


L2. 

Lament  not  ye,  who  humbly  steal  through  life, 

That  Genius  visits  not  your  lowly  shed ; 
For,  ah,  what  woes  and  sorrows  ever  rife 

Distract  his  hapless  head ! 
For  him  awaits  no  balmy  sleep, 
He  wakes  all  night,  and  wakes  to  weep ; 
Or  by  his  lonely  lamp  he  sits 

At  solemn  midnight,  when  the  peasant  sleeps, 
In  feverish  study,  and  in  moody  fits 
His  mournful  vigils  keeps. 
11 


162  THE  POEMS    OF 


H.2. 

And,  oh !  for  what  consumes  his  watchful  oil? 

For  what  does  thus  he  waste  life's  fleeting 
'Tis  for  neglect  and  penury  he  doth  toil,       [breath  ? 

Tis  for  untimely  death. 
Lo !  where  dejected  pale  he  lies, 
Despair  depicted  in  his  eyes, 
He  feels  the  vital  flame  decrease, 

He  sees  the  grave  wide  yawning  for  its  prey, 
Without  a  friend  to  soothe  his  soul  to  peace, 

And  cheer  the  expiring  ray. 

in.  2. 

By  Sulmo's  bard  of  mournful  fame, 
By  gentle  Otway's  magic  name, 
By  him,  the  youth,  who  smiled  at  death, 
And  rashly  dared  to  stop  his  vital  breath, 

Will  I  thy  pangs  proclaim ; 
For  still  to  misery  closely  thou  'rt  allied, 
Though  gaudy  pageants  glitter  by  thy  side, 

And  far  resounding  Fame. 
What  though  to  thee  the  dazzled  millions  bow, 
And  to  thy  posthumous  merit  bend  them  low ; 
Though  unto  thee  the  monarch  looks  with  awe, 
And  thou  at  thy  flash'd  car  dost  nations  draw, 
Yet,  ah !  unseen  behind  thee  fly 

Corroding  Anguish,  soul-subduing  Pain, 
And  Discontent  that  clouds  the  fairest  sky,  — 
A  melancholy  train. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  163 

Yes,  Genius,  thee  a  thousand  cares  await, 

Mocking  thy  derided  state  ; 

Thee  chill  Adversity  will  still  attend, 

Before  whose  face  flies  fast  the  summer's  friend 

And  leaves  thee  all  forlorn  ; 
While   leaden    Ignorance  rears    her    head  and 

laughs, 

And  fat  Stupidity  shakes  his  jolly  sides, 
And  while  the  cup  of  affluence  he  quaffs 

With  bee-eyed  Wisdom,  Genius  derides, 
Who  toils,  and  every  hardship  doth  outbrave, 
To  gain  the  meed  of  praise  when  he  is  mouldering 
in  his  grave. 


FRAGMENT  OF  AN  ODE  TO  THE  MOON. 

MILD  orb,  who  floatest  through  the  realm  of  night, 

A  pathless  wanderer  o'er  a  lonely  wild, 
Welcome  to  me  thy  soft  and  pensive  light, 

Which  oft  in  childhood  my  lone  thoughts  beguiled. 
Now  doubly  dear  as  o'er  my  silent  seat, 
Nocturnal  study's  still  retreat, 
It  casts  a  mournful  melancholy  gleam, 
And  through  my  lofty  casement  weaves, 
Dim  through  the  vine's  encircling  leaves, 
An  intermingled  beam. 


164  THE   POEMS    OP 

These  feverish  dews  that  on  my  temples  hang, 
This  quivering  lip,  these  eyes  of  dying  flame ; 

These  the  dread  signs  of  many  a  secret  pang, 
These  are  the  meed  of  him  who  pants  for  fame ! 

Pale  Moon,  from  thoughts  like  these  divert  my  soul ; 
Lowly  I  kneel  before  thy  shrine  on  high ; 

My  lamp  expires ; — beneath  thy  mild  control 

These  restless  dreams  are  ever  wont  to  fly. 

Come,  kindred  mourner,  in  my  breast 
Soothe  these  discordant  tones  to  rest, 

And  breathe  the  soul  of  peace ; 
Mild  visitor,  I  feel  thee  here, 
It  is  not  pain  that  brings  this  tear, 

For  thou  hast  bid  it  cease. 
Oh !  many  a  year  has  pass'd  away 
Since  I,  beneath  thy  fairy  ray, 

Attuned  my  infant  reed ; 
When  wilt  thou,  Time,  those  days  restore, 
Those  happy  moments  now  no  more  — 


When  on  the  lake's  damp  marge  I  lay, 

And  marked  the  northern  meteor's  dance, 
Bland  Hope  and  Fancy,  ye  were  there 
To  inspirate  my  trance. 

Twin  sisters,  faintly  now  ye  deign 
Your  magic  sweets  on  me  to  shed, 
In  vain  your  powers  are  now  essayed 
To  chase  superior  pain. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  165 

And  art  thou  fled,  thou  welcome  orb ! 

So  swiftly  pleasure  flies, 
So  to  mankind,  in  darkness  lost, 

The  beam  of  ardour  dies. 
Wan  Moon,  thy  nightly  task  is  done, 
And  now,  encurtained  in  the  main, 

Thou  sinkest  into  rest ; 
But  I,  in  vain,  on  thorny  bed 
Shall  woo  the  god  of  soft  repose  — 


TO  THE  MUSE. 

WBITTEN  AT  THE  AGE  OF  FOURTEEN. 

ILL-FATED  maid,  in  whose  unhappy  train 
Chill  poverty  and  misery  are  seen, 

Anguish  and  discontent,  the  unhappy  bane 
Of  life,  and  blackener  of  each  brighter  scene ; 

Why  to  thy  votaries  dost  thou  give  to  feel 
So  keenly  all  the  scorns  —  the  jeers  of  life  ? 
Why  not  endow  them  to  endure  the  strife 

With  apathy's  invulnerable  steel, 

Or  self-content  and  ease,  each  torturing  wound  to 
heal? 

Ah !  who  would  taste  your  self-deluding  joys, 
That  lure  the  unwary  to  a  wretched  doom, 

That  bid  fair  views  and  flattering  hopes  arise, 
Then  hurl  them  headlong  to  a  lasting  tomb  ? 

What  is  the  charm  which  leads  thy  victims  on 


166  THE   POEMS    OF 

To  persevere  in  paths  that  lead  to  woe  ? 

"What  can  induce  them  in  that  route  to  go, 
In  which  innumerous  before  have  gone, 
And  died  in  misery  poor  and  wo-begone  ? 

Yet  can  I  ask  what  charms  in  thee  are  found ; 
I,  who  have  drunk  from  thine  ethereal  rill, 

And  tasted  all  the  pleasures  that  abound 
Upon  Parnassus'  loved  Aonian  hill  ? 

I,  through  whose  soul  the  Muse's  strains  aye  thrill  ? 
Oh !  I  do  feel  the  spell  with  which  I'm  tied ; 

And  though  our  annals  fearful  stories  tell, 
How  Savage  languished,  and  how  Otway  died, 
Yet  must  I  persevere,  let  whate'er  will  betide. 


TO  LOVE. 

WHY  should  I  blush  to  own  I  love  ? 
'Tis  Love  that  rules  the  realms  above. 
Why  should  I  blush  to  say  to  all, 
That  Virtue  holds  my  heart  in  thrall  ? 

"Why  should  I  seek  the  thickest  shade, 
Lest  Love's  dear  secret  be  betray'd  ? 
Why  the  stern  brow  deceitful  move, 
When  I  am  languishing  with  love  ? 

Is  it  weakness  thus  to  dwell 
On  passion  that  I  dare  not  tell  ? 
Such  weakness  I  would  ever  prove ; 
'Tis  painful,  though  'tis  sweet  to  love. 


KIBKE   WHITE.  167 


ON  WHIT-MONDAY. 

HARK  !  how  the  merry  bells  ring  jocund  round, 
And  now  they  die  upon  the  veering  breeze ; 

Anon  they  thunder  loud 

Full  on  the  musing  ear. 

Wafted  in  varying  cadence,  by  the  shore 
Of  the  still  twinkHng  river,  they  bespeak 

A  day  of  jubilee, 

An  ancient  holiday. 

And  lo !  the  rural  revels  are  begun, 
And  gaily  echoing  to  the  laughing  sky, 

On  the  smooth  shaven  green 

Resounds  the  voice  of  Mirth. 

Alas !  regardless  of  the  tongue  of  Fate, 
That  tells  them  'tis  but  as  an  hour  since  they 

Who  now  are  in  their  graves 

Kept  up  the  Whitsun  dance. 

And  that  another  hour,  and  they  must  fall 
Like  those  who  went  before,  and  sleep  as  still, 

Beneath  the  silent  sod, 

A  cold  and  cheerless  sleep. 


168  THE   POEMS    OP 

Yet  why  should  thoughts  like  these  intrude  to  scare 
The  vagrant  Happiness,  when  she  will  deign 

To  smile  upon  us  here, 

A  transient  visitor  ? 

Mortals !  be  gladsome  while  ye  have  the  power, 
And  laugh  and  seize  the  glittering  lapse  of  joy; 

In  time  the  bell  will  toll 

That  warns  ye  to  your  graves. 

I  to  the  woodland  solitude  will  bend 
My  lonesome  way  —  where    Mirth's  obstreperous 
shout 

Shall  not  intrude  to  break 

The  meditative  hour. 

There  will  I  ponder  on  the  state  of  man, 
Joyless  and  sad  of  heart,  and  consecrate 

This  day  of  jubilee 

To  sad  reflection's  shrine ; 

And  I  will  cast  my  fond  eye  far  beyond 
This  world  of  care,  to  where  the  steeple  loud 

Shall  rock  above  the  sod 

Where  I  shall  sleep  in  peace. 


KIKKE   WHITE.  169 


TO  THE  WIND,  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

NOT  unfamiliar  to  mine  ear, 
Blasts  of  the  night !  ye  howl ;  as  now 
My  shuddering  casement  loud 
With  fitful  force  ye  beat. 

Mine  ear  has  dwelt  in  silent  awe, 
The  howling  sweep,  the  sudden  rush ; 
And  when  the  passing  gale 
Pour'd  deep  the  hollow  dirge. 


TO  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

Cum  ruit  imbriferum  ver: 
Spicea  jam  campis  cum  messis  inhorruit,  et  cum 
Frumenta  in  viridi  stipula  lactentia  turgent. 

Cuncta  tibi  Cererem  pubes  agrestis  adoret. 

VIRGIL. 

MOON  of  Harvest,  herald  mild 
Of  plenty,  rustic  labour's  child, 
Hail !  oh  hail !  I  greet  thy  beam, 
As  soft  it  trembles  o'er  the  stream, 
And  gilds  the  straw-thatched  hamlet  wide, 
Where  Innocence  and  Peace  reside ! 
T  is  thou  that  gladd'st  with  joy  the  rustic  throng, 
Promptest  the  tripping  dance,  the  exhilarating  song. 


170  THE   POEMS    OP 

Moon  of  Harvest,  I  do  love 

O'er  the  uplands  now  to  rove, 

While  thy  modest  ray  serene 

Gilds  the  wide  surrounding  scene ; 

And  to  watch  thee  riding  high 

In  the  blue  vault  of  the  sky, 
Where  no  thin  vapour  intercepts  thy  ray, 
But  in  unclouded  majesty  thou  walkest  on  thy  way. 

Pleasing  'tis,  oh !  modest  Moon ! 
Now  the  night  is  at  her  noon, 
'Neath  thy  sway  to  musing  lie, 
While  around  the  zephyrs  sigh, 
Fanning  soft  the  sun-tanned  wheat, 
Ripen'd  by  the  summer's  heat ; 
Picturing  all  the  rustic's  joy 
When  boundless  plenty  greets  his  eye, 

And  thinking  soon, 

Oh,  modest  Moon ! 
How  many  a  female  eye  will  roam 

Along  the  road, 

To  see  the  load, 
The  last  dear  load  of  harvest  home. 

Storms  and  tempests,  floods  and  rains, 
Stern  despoilers  of  the  plains, 
Hence,  away,  the  season  flee, 
Foes  to  light-heart  jollity : 
May  no  winds  careering  high 
Drive  the  clouds  along  the  sky, 


KIRKE    WHITE.  171 

But  may  all  nature  smile  with  aspect  boon, 
When  in  the  heavens  thou  show'st  thy  face,  oh 
Harvest  Moon ! 

'Neath  yon  lowly  roof  he  lies, 
The  husbandman,  with  sleep-sealed  eyes : 
He  dreams  of  crowded  barns,  and  round 
The  yard  he  hears  the  flail  resound ; 
Oh !  may  no  hurricane  destroy 
His  visionary  views  of  joy ! 
God  of  the  winds !  oh,  hear  his  humble  prayer, 
And  while  the  Moon  of  Harvest  shines,  thy  bluster- 
ing whirlwind  spare. 

Sons  of  luxury,  to  you 

Leave  I  sleep's  dull  power  to  woo ; 

Press  ye  still  the  downy  bed, 

While  feverish  dreams  surround  your  head ; 

I  will  seek  the  woodland  glade, 

Penetrate  the  thickest  shade, 

Wrapped  in  contemplation's  dreams, 

Musing  high  on  holy  themes, 

While  on  the  gale 

Shall  softly  sail 
The  nightingale's  enchanting  tune, 

And  oft  my  eyes 

Shall  grateful  rise 
To  thee,  the  modest  Harvest  Moon ! 


172  THE   POEMS    OF 


TO  THE  HERB  ROSEMARY.* 

SWEET  scented  flower !  who  art  wont  to  bloom 

On  January's  front  severe, 

And  o'er  the  wintry  desert  drear 
To  waft  thy  waste  perfume ! 
Come,  thou  shalt  form  my  nosegay  now, 
And  I  will  bind  thee  round  my  brow ; 

And  as  I  twine  the  mournful  wreath, 
I'll  weave  a  melancholy  song; 
And  sweet  the  strain  shall  be,  and  long, 

The  melody  of  death. 

Come,  funeral  flower !  who  lovest  to  dwell 
With  the  pale  corse  in  lonely  tomb, 
And  throw  across  the  desert  gloom 

A  sweet  decaying  smell. 

Come,  press  my  lips,  and  lie  with  me 

Beneath  the  lowly  alder  tree, 

And  we  will  sleep  a  pleasant  sleep, 

And  not  a  care  shah1  dare  intrude 

To  break  the  marble  solitude, 
So  peaceful  and  so  deep. 

And  hark !  the  wind  god,  as  he  flies, 
Moans  hollow  in  the  forest  trees, 
And  sailing  on  the  gusty  breeze, 

*  The  Rosemary  buds  in  January.    It  is  the  flower  commonly 
pat  in  the  coffins  of  the  dead. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  173 

Mysterious  music  dies. 
Sweet  flower !  that  requiem  wild  is  mine, 
It  warns  me  to  the  lonely  shrine, 
The  cold  turf  altar  of  the  dead : 

My  grave  shall  be  in  yon  lone  spot, 

Where  as  I  lie,  by  all  forgot, 
A  dying  fragrance  thou  wilt  o'er  my  ashes  shed. 


TO   THE  MORNING. 

WRITTEN  DURING    ILLNESS. 

BEAMS  of  the  daybreak  faint !  I  hail 
Your  dubious  hues,  as  on  the  robe 
Of  night,  which  wraps  the  slumbering  globe, 
I  mark  your  traces  pale. 

Tired  with  the  taper's  sickly  light, 

And  with  the  wearying,  numbered  night, 

I  hail  the  streaks  of  morn  divine : 
And  lo !  they  break  between  the  dewy  wreaths 

That  round  my  rural  casement  twine ;       .   - 
The  fresh  gale  o'er  the  green  lawn  breathes, 
It  fans  my  feverish  brow,  —  it  calms  the  mental  strife, 
And  cheerily  re-illumes  the  lambent  flame  of  life. 

The  lark  has  her  gay  song  begun, 

She  leaves  her  grassy  nest, 
And  soars  till  the  unrisen  sun 

Gleams  on  her  speckled  breast. 


174  THE   POEMS    OF 

Now  let  me  leave  my  restless  bed, 
And  o'er  the  spangled  uplands  tread ; 

Now  through  the  customed  wood  walk  wend ; 
By  many  a  green  lane  lies  my  way, 

Where  high  o'er  head  the  wild  briers  bend, 
Till  on  the  mountain's  summit  gray, 
I  sit  me  down,  and  mark  the  glorious  dawn  of  day. 

Oh  Heaven !  the  soft  refreshing  gale, 

It  breathes  into  my  breast ! 
My  sunk  eye  gleams ;  my  cheek,  so  pale, 

Is  with  new  colours  dressed. 
Blithe  Health !  thou  soul  of  life  and  ease ! 
Come  thou,  too,  on  the  balmy  breeze, 

Invigorate  my  frame : 
I'll  join  with  thee  the  buskined  chase, 
With  thee  the  distant  clime  will  trace 
Beyond  those  clouds  of  flame. 

Above,  below,  what  charms  unfold 

In  all  the  varied  view ! 
Before  me  all  is  burnished  gold, 

Behind  the  twilight's  hue. 
The  mists  which  on  old  Night  await, 
Far  to  the  west  they  hold  their  state, 

They  shun  the  clear  blue  face  of  Morn  ; 

Along  the  fine  cerulean  sky 

The  fleecy  clouds  successive  fly, 
While  bright  prismatic  beams  their  shadowy  folds 
adorn. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  175 

And  hark !  the  thatcher  has  begun 

His  whistle  on  the  eaves, 
And  oft  the  hedger's  bill  is  heard 

Among  the  rustling  leaves. 
The  slow  team  creaks  upon  the  road, 

The  noisy  whip  resounds, 
The  driver's  voice,  his  carol  blithe, 
The  mower's  stroke,  his  whetting  scythe 

Mix  with  the  morning's  sounds. 

Who  would  not  rather  take  his  seat 

Beneath  these  clumps  of  trees, 
The  early  dawn  of  day  to  greet, 

And  catch  the  healthy  breeze, 
Than  on  the  silken  couch  of  Sloth 

Luxurious  to  lie ; 

Who  would  not  from  life's  dreary  waste 
Snatch,  when  he  could,  with  eager  haste, 

An  interval  of  joy ! 

To  him  who  simply  thus  recounts 

The  morning's  pleasures  o'er, 
Fate  dooms,  ere  long,  the  scene  must  close 

To  ope  on  him  no  more. 
Yet  Morning !  unrepining  still, 

He  '11  greet  thy  beams  awhile ; 
And  surely  thou,  when  o'er  his  grave 
Solemn  the  whispering  willows  wave, 

Wilt  sweetly  on  him  smile : 
And  the  pale  glowworm's  pensive  light    [night. 
Will  guide  his  ghostly  walks  in  the  drear  moonless 


176  THE   POEMS    OP 


ON  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

COME,  Disappointment,  come! 

Not  in  thy  terrors  clad : 
Come,  in  thy  meekest,  saddest  guise ; 
Thy  chastening  rod  but  terrifies 
The  restless  and  the  bad. 
But  I  recline 

Beneath  thy  shrine,  [twine. 

And  round  my  brow  resign'd  thy  peaceful  cypress 

Though  Fancy  flies  away 

Before  thy  hollow  tread, 
Yet  Meditation,  in  her  cell, 
Hears  with  faint  eye  the  lingering  knell 
That  tells  her  hopes  are  dead ; 
And  though  the  tear 
By  chance  appear, 
Yet  she  can  smile,  and  say,  My  all  was  not  laid  here. 

Come,  Disappointment,  come ! 

Though  from  Hope's  summit  hurled, 
Still,  rigid  nurse,  thou  art  forgiven, 
For  thou  severe  wert  sent  from  heaven 
To  wean  me  from  the  world; 
To  turn  my  eye 
From  vanity, 
And  point  to  scenes  of  bliss  that  never,  never  die. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  177 

What  is  this  passing  scene  ? 

A  peevish  April  day ! 
A  little  sun  —  a  little  rain, 
And  then  night  sweeps  along  the  plain, 
And  all  things  fade  away. 
Man  (soon  discussed) 
Yields  up  his  trust, 
And  all  his  hopes  and  fears  lie  with  him  in  the  dust. 

Oh,  what  is  Beauty's  power  ? 

It  flourishes  and  dies ; 
Will  the  cold  earth  its  silence  break, 
To  tell  how  soft,  how  smooth  a  cheek 
Beneath  its  surface  lies  ? 
Mute,  mute  is  all 

O'er  Beauty's  fall ;  [pall. 

Her  praise  resounds  no  more  when  mantled  in  her 

The  most  beloved  on  earth 

Not  long  survives  to-day ; 
So  music  past  is  obsolete, 
And  yet  'twas  sweet,  'twas  passing  sweet, 
But  now  'tis  gone  away. 
Thus  does  the  shade 
In  memory  fade, 
When  in  forsaken  tomb  the  form  beloved  is  laid. 

Then  since  this  world  is  vain, 
And  volatile,  and  fleet, 
12 


178  THE   POEMS    OF 

Why  should  I  lay  up  earthly  joys, 
Where  rust  corrupts,  and  moth  destroys, 
And  cares  and  sorrows  eat? 
Why  fly  from  ill 
With  anxious  skill, 

When  soon  this  hand  will  freeze,  this  throbbing 
heart  be  still. 

Come,  Disappointment,  come ! 

Thou  art  not  stern  to  me ; 
Sad  Monitress !  I  own  thy  sway, 
A  rotary  sad  in  early  day, 
I  bend  my  knee  to  thee. 
From  sun  to  sun 
My  race  will  run, 
I  only  bow,  and  say,  My  God,  thy  will  be  done  ! 

On  another  paper  are  a  few  lines,  written  probably  in  the 
freshness  of  his  disappointment. 

I  dream  no  more  —  the  vision  flies  away, 

And  Disappointment     .     .     .     . 

There  fell  my  hopes  —  I  lost  my  all  in  this, 

My  cherished  all  of  visionary  bliss. 

Now  hope  farewell,  farewell  all  joys  below ; 

Now  welcome  sorrow,  and  now  welcome  woe. 

Plunge  me  hi  glooms     .... 


KIRKE    WHITE.  179 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DERMODY,  THE  POET. 

CHILD  of  Misfortune !     Offspring  of  the  Muse ! 
Mark  like  the  meteor's  gleam  his  mad  career ; 
"With  hollow  cheeks  and  haggard  eye, 
Behold  he  shrieking  passes  by : 

I  see,  I  see  him  near : 
That  hollow  scream,  that  deepening  groan ; 
It  rings  upon  mine  ear. 

Oh  come,  ye  thoughtless,  ye  deluded  youth, 
Who  clasp  the  siren  pleasure  to  your  breast, 
Behold  the  wreck  of  genius  here, 
And  drop,  oh  drop  the  silent  tear 

For  Dermody  at  rest : 
His  fate  is  yours,  then  from  your  loins 
Tear  quick  the  silken  vest. 

Saw'st  thou  his  dying  bed !     Saw*st  thou  his  eye, 
Once  flashing  fire,  despair's  dim  tear  distil ; 
How  ghastly  did  it  seem ; 
And  then  his  dying  scream : 

Oh  God!  I  hear <it  still: 
It  sounds  upon  my  fainting  sense, 
It  strikes  with  deathly  chill. 


180  THE   POEMS    OP 

Say,  didst  thou  mark  the  brilliant  poet's  death ; 
Saw*st  thou  an  anxious  father  by  his  bed, 
Or  pitying  friends  around  him  stand : 
.Or  didst  thou  see  a  mother's  hand 

Support  his  languid  head  ? 
Oh  none  of  these  —  no  friend  o'er  him 
The  balm  of  pity  shed. 

Now  come  around,  ye  flippant  sons  of  wealth, 
Sarcastic  smile  on  genius  fallen  low ; 
Now  come  around  who  pant  for  fame, 
And  learn  from  hence,  a  poet's  name 

Is  purchased  but  by  woe  : 
And  when  ambition  prompts  to  rise, 
Oh  think  of  him  below. 

For  me,  poor  moralizer,  I  will  run, 
Dejected,  to  some  solitary  state : 
The  muse  has  set  her  seal  on  me, 
She  set  her  seal  on  Dermody, 

It  is  the  seal  of  fate : 
In  some  lone  spot  my  bones  may  lie, 
Secure  from  human  hate. 

Yet  ere  I  go  I'll  drop  one  silent  tear, 
Where  lies  unwept  the  poet's  fallen  head : 
May  peace  her  banners  o'er  him  wave ; 
For  me  in  my  deserted  grave 
No  friend  a  tear  shall  shed : 
Yet  may  the  lily  and  the  rose 
Bloom  on  my  grassy  bed. 


KIRKE   WHITE.  181 


SONNETS. 
SONNET  TO  THE  KIVER  TRENT. 

WRITTEN  ON  RECOVERY  FROM  SICKUESS. 

ONCE  more,  0  Trent !  along  thy  pebbly  marge 

A  pensive  invalid,  reduced  and  pale, 
From  the  close  sick-room  newly  set  at  large, 

Woos  to  his  wan  worn  cheek  the  pleasant  gale. 
O !  to  his  ear  how  musical  the  tale 

Which  fills  with  joy  the  throstle's  little  throat ! 
And  all  the  sounds  which  on  the  fresh  breeze  sail, 

How  wildly  novel  on  his  senses  float ! 
It  was  on  this  that  many  a  sleepless  night, 

As  lone  he  watched  the  taper's  sickly  gleam, 
And  at  his  casement  heard,  with  wild  affright, 

The  owl's  dull  wing,  and  melancholy  scream, 
On  this  he  thought,  this,  this,  his  sole  desire, 
Thus  once  again  to  hear  the  warbling  woodland  choir. 


SONNET. 

GIVE  me  a  cottage  on  some  Cambrian  wild, 
Where  far  from  cities  I  may  spend  my  days ; 

And,  by  the  beauties  of  the  scene  beguiled, 
May  pity  man's  pursuits  and  shun  his  ways. 

While  on  the  rock  I  mark  the  browsing  goat, 


182  THE   POEMS    OF 

List  to  the  mountain-torrent's  distant  noise, 
Or  the  hoarse  bittern's  solitary  note, 

I  shall  not  want  the  world's  delusive  joys ; 
But  with  my  little  scrip,  my  book,  my  lyre, 

Shall  think  my  lot  complete,  nor  covet  more ; 
And  when,  with  time,  shall  wane  the  vital  fire, 

I'll  raise  my  pillow  on  the  desert  shore, 
And  lay  me  down  to  rest  where  the  wild  wave 
Shall  make  sweet  music  o'er  my  lonely  grave. 


SONNET.* 

SUPPOSED  TO  HAVE  BEEN  ADDRESSED   BY  A   FEMALE 
LUNATIC  TO  A  LADY. 

LADY,  thou  weepest  for  the  Maniac's  woe, 

And  thou  art  fair,  and  thou,  like  me,  art  young ; 
Oh !  may  thy  bosom  never,  never  know 

The  pangs  with  which  my  wretched  heart  is  wrung. 
I  had  a  mother  once  —  a  brother  too  — 

(Beneath  yon  yew  my  father  rests  his  head :) 
I  had  a  lover  once,  and  kind  and  true, 

But  mother,  brother,  lover,  all  are  fled ! 
Yet,  whence  the  tear  which  dims  thy  lovely  eye  ? 

Oh !  gentle  lady  —  not  for  me  thus  weep, 
The  green  sod  soon  upon  my  breast  will  lie, 

And  soft  and  sound  will  be  my  peaceful  sleep. 
Go  thou,  and  pluck  the  roses  while  they  bloom  — 

My  hopes  lie  buried  in  the  silent  tomb. 

*  This  Quatorzain  had  its  rise  from  an  elegant  Sonnet,  "  occa- 
sioned by  seeing  a  young  female  Lunatic,"  written  by  Mrs.  Lofft, 
and  published  in  the  Monthly  Mirror. 


KIKKE    WHITE.  183 


SONNET. 

Supposed  to  be  written  by  the  unhappy  Poet  Dermody  in  a 
Storm,  while  on  board  a  ship  in  his  Majesty's  service. 

Lo !  o'er  the  welkin  the  tempestuous  clouds 
Successive  fly,  and  the  loud  piping  wind 

Rocks  the  poor  sea-boy  on  the  dripping  shrouds, 
While  the  pale  pilot,  o'er  the  helm  reclined, 

Lists  to  the  changeful  storm :  and  as  he  plies 
His  wakeful  task,  he  oft  bethinks  him,  sad, 
Of  wife,  and  little  home,  and  chubby  lad, 

And  the  half  strangled  tear  bedews  his  eyes ; 
I,  on  the  deck,  musing  on  themes  forlorn, 

View  the  drear  tempest,  and  the  yawning  deep, 

Nought  dreading  in  the  green  sea's  caves  to  sleep, 
For  not  for  me  shall  wife  or  children  mourn, 

And  the  wild  winds  will  ring  my  funeral  knell, 

Sweetly  as  solemn  peal  of  pious  passing-bell. 


SONNET.  THE  WINTER  TRAVELLER. 

GOD  help  thee,  Traveller,  on  thy  journey  far ; 
The  wind  is  bitter  keen,  —  the  snow  o'erlays 
The  hidden  pits,  and  dangerous  hollow  ways, 
And  darkness  will  involve  thee.     No  kind  star 
To-night  will  guide  thee,  Traveller,  —  and  the  war 
Of  winds  and  elements  on  thy  head  will  break, 


184  THE   POEMS    OP 

% 

And  in  thy  agonizing  ear  the  shriek 

Of  spirits  howling  on  their  stormy  car 

Will  often  ring  appalling  —  I  portend 

A  dismal  night  —  and  on  my  wakeful  bed 
Thoughts,  Traveller,  of  thee  will  fill  my  head, 

And  him  who  rides  where  winds  and  waves  contend, 
And  strives,  rude  cradled  on  the  seas,  to  guide 
His  lonely  bark  through  the  tempestuous  tide. 


SONNET. 

BY  CAPEL  LOFFT,   ESQ. 

This  Sonnet  was  addressed  to  the  Author  of  this  volume,  and 
was  occasioned  by  several  little  Quatorzains,  misnomered 
Sonnets,  which  he  published  in  the  Monthly  Mirror.  He  begs 
leave  to  return  his  thanks  to  the  much  respected  writer,  for 
the  permission  so  politely  granted  to  insert  it  here,  and  for  the 
good  opinion  he  has  been  pleased  to  express  of  his  productions. 

YE  whose  aspirings  court  the  muse  of  lays, 
"  Severest  of  those  orders  which  belong, 

Distinct  and  separate,  to  Delphic  song," 
Why  shun  the  sonnet's  undulating  maze  ? 
And  why  its  name,  boast  of  Petrarchian  days, 

Assume,  its    rules   disowned?  whom    from   the 

throng 
The  muse  selects,  their  ear  the  charm  obeys 

Of  its  full  harmony :  —  they  fear  to  wrong 


KIRKE    WHITE.  185 

The  sonnet,  by  adorning  with  a  name 

Of  that  distinguished  import,  lays,  though  sweet, 
Yet  not  in  magic  texture  taught  to  meet 

Of  that  so  varied  and  peculiar  frame. 

O  think !  to  vindicate  its  genuine  praise 

Those  it  beseems,  whose  lyre  a  favouring  impulse 


SONNET. 

BECANTATOBY,  IN   KEPLY  TO  THE  FOREGOING  ELEGANT 
ADMONITION. 

LET  the  sublimer  muse,  who,  wrapped  in  night, 
Rides  on  the  raven  pennons  of  the  storm, 
Or  o'er  the  field,  with  purple  havoc  warm, 

Lashes  her  steeds,  and  sings  along  the  fight ; 

Let  her,  whom  more  ferocious  strains  delight, 
Disdain  the  plaintive  sonnet's  little  form, 
And  scorn  to  its  wild  cadence  to  conform, 

The  impetuous  tenor  of  her  hardy  flight. 

But  me,  far  lowest  of  the  sylvan  train, 

Who   wake   the   wood-nymphs  from   the    forest 

shade 
With  wildest  song ;  —  me,  much  behooves  thy  aid 

Of  mingled  melody,  to  grace  my  strain, 

And  give  it  power  to  please,  as  soft  it  flows 

Through  the  smooth  murmurs  of  thy  frequent  close. 


186  THE   POEMS    OF 


SONNET  ON  HEAKING  THE  SOUNDS  OF  AN 
HARP. 


So  ravishingly  soft  upon  the  tide 
Of  the  infuriate  gust,  it  did  career, 
It  might  have  soothed  its  rugged  charioteer, 
And  sunk  him  to  a  zephyr  ;  then  it  died, 
Melting  in  melody  ;  —  •  and  I  descried, 

Borne  to  some  wizard  stream,  the  form  appear 
Of  Druid  sage,  who  on  the  far-off  ear 
Poured  his  lone  song,  to  which  the  surge  replied  : 
Or  thought  I  heard  the  hapless  pilgrim's  knell, 
Lost  in  some  wild  enchanted  forest's  bounds, 
By  unseen  heings  sung  ;  or  are  these  sounds 
Such  as,  'tis  said,  at  night  are  known  to  swell 
By  startled  shepherd  on  the  lonely  heath, 
Keeping  his  night-watch  sad,  portending  death  ? 


SONNET. 

WHAT  art  thou,  Mighty  One !  and  where  thy  seat  ? 

Thou  broodest  on  the  calm  that  cheers  the  lands. 

And  thou  dost  bear  within  thine  awful  hands 
The  rolling  thunders  and  the  lightnings  fleet. 
Stern  on  thy  dark-wrought  car  of  cloud  and  wind, 

Thou  guidest  the  northern  storm  at  night's  dead 
noon, 


KIRKE    WHITE.  187 

Or,  on  the  red  wing  of  the  fierce  monsoon, 
Disturb'st  the  sleeping  giant  of  the  Ind. 
In  the  drear  silence  of  the  polar  span 

Dost  thou  repose  ?  or  in  the  solitude 
Of  sultry  tracts,  where  the  lone  caravan 

Hears  nightly  howl  the  tiger's  hungry  brood  ? 
Vain  thought !  the  confines  of  his  throne  to  trace, 
Who  glows  through  all  the  fields  of  boundless  space. 


SONNET  TO  CAPEL  LOFFT,  ESQ. 

LOFFT,  unto  thee  one  tributary  song 

The  simple  Muse,  admiring,  fain  would  bring ; 

She  longs  to  lisp  thee  to  the  listening  throng, 
And  with  thy  name  to  bid  the  woodlands  ring. 

Fain  would  she  blazon  all  thy  virtues  forth, 
Thy  warm  philanthropy,  thy  justice  mild, 

Would  say  how  thou  didst  foster  kindred  worth, 
And  to  thy  bosom  snatched  Misfortune's  child : 

Firm  she  would  paint  thee,  with  becoming  zeal, 
Upright,  and  learned,  as  the  Pylian  sire, 
Would  say  how  sweetly  thou  couldst  sweep  the 
lyre, 

And  show  thy  labours  for  the  public  weal, 
Ten  thousand  virtues  tell  with  joys  supreme, 
But  ah !  she  shrinks  abashed  before  the  arduous 
theme. 


188  THE   POEMS    OP 


SONNET  TO  THE  MOON. 

WRITTEN  IN  NOVEMBER. 

SUBLIME,  emerging  from  the  misty  verge 
Of  the  horizon  dim,  thee,  Moon,  I  hail, 
As,  sweeping  o'er  the  leafless  grove,  the  gale 

Seems  to  repeat  the  year's  funereal  dirge. 

Now  Autumn  sickens  on  the  languid  sight, 

And  leaves  bestrew  the  wanderer's  lonely  way, 

Now  unto  thee,  pale  arbitress  of  night, 
With  double  joy  my  homage  do  I  pay. 
When  clouds  disguise  the  glories  of  the  day, 

And  stern  November  sheds  her  boisterous  blight, 
How  doubly  sweet  to  mark  the  moony  ray 

Shoot  through  the  mist  from  the  ethereal  height, 
And,  still  unchanged,  back  to  the  memory  bring 
The  smiles  Favonian  of  life's  earliest  spring. 


SONNET  WEITTEN  AT   THE   GRAVE  OF 
A  FEIEND. 

FAST  from  the  west  the  fading  day-streaks  fly, 
And  ebon  Night  assumes  her  solemn  sway, 

Yet  here  alone,  unheeding  time,  I  lie, 

And  o'er  my  friend  still  pour  the  plaintive  lay. 

Oh !  'tis  not  long  since,  George,  with  thee  I  wooed 
The  maid  of  musings  by  yon  moaning  wave ; 


KIRKE   WHITE.  189 

And  hail'd  the  moon's  mild  beam,  which,  now  re- 
newed, 

Seems  sweetly  sleeping  on  thy  silent  grave ! 
The  busy  world  pursues  its  boisterous  way, 

The  noise  of  revelry  still  echoes  round, 
Yet  I  am  sad  while  all  beside  is  gay ; 

Yet  still  I  weep  o'er  thy  deserted  mound. 
Oh !  that,  like  thee,  I  might  bid  sorrow  cease, 
And  'neath  the  greensward  sleep  the  sleep  of  peace. 


SONNET  TO  MISFORTUNE. 

MISFORTUNE,  I  am  young,  my  chin  is  bare, 

And  I  have  wondered  much  when  men  have  told, 
How  youth  was  free  from  sorrow  and  from  care, 

That  thou  shouldst  dwell  with  me,  and  leave  the 

old. 
Sure  dost  not  like  me  I  —  Shrivelled  hag  of  hate, 

My  phiz,  (and  thanks  to  thee,)  is  sadly  long ; 

I  am  not  either,  beldame,  over  strong ; 
Nor  do  I  wish  at  all  to  be  thy  mate, 
For  thou,  sweet  Fury,  art  my  utter  hate. 
Nay,  shake  not  thus  thy  miserable  pate ; 
I  am  yet  young,  and  do  not  Mice  thy  face ; 
And,  lest  thou  shouldst  resume  the  wild-goose  chase, 
I  '11  tell  thee  something  all  thy  heat  to  assuage, 
—  Thou  wilt  not  hit  my  fancy  in  my  age. 


190  THE   POEMS    OF 


SONNET. 

As  thus  oppressed  with  many  a  heavy  care, 
(Though  young  yet  sorrowful),  I  turn  my  feet 
To  the  dark  woodland,  longing  much  to  greet 
The  form  of  Peace,  if  chance  she  sojourn  there ; 
Deep  thought  and  dismal,  verging  to  despair, 

Fills  my  sad  breast ;  and,  tired  with  this  vain  coil, 
I  shrink  dismayed  before  life's  upland  toil. 
And  as,  amid  the  leaves,  the  evening  air 
Whispers  still  melody,  —  I  think  ere  long, 

When  I  no  more  can  hear,  these  woods  will  speak ; 
And  then  a  sad  smile  plays  upon  my  cheek, 
And  mournful  phantasies  upon  me  throng, 
And  I  do  ponder,  with  most  strange  delight, 
On  the  calm  slumbers  of  the  dead  man's  night. 


SONNET  TO  APEIL. 

EMBLEM  of  life  I  see  changeful  April  sail 
In  varying  vest  along  the  shadowy  skies, 
Now  bidding  summer's  softest  zephyrs  rise, 

Anon  recalling  winter's  stormy  gale, 

And  pouring  from  the  cloud  her  sudden  hail ; 

Then,  smiling  through  the  tear  that  duns  her  eyes, 
While  Iris  with  her  braid  the  welkin  dyes, 

Promise  of  sunshine,  not  so  prone  to  fail. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  191 

So,  to  us,  sojourners  in  life's  low  vale, 
The  smiles  of  fortune  flatter  to  deceive, 
While  still  the  fates  the  web  of  misery  weave. 
So  Hope  exultant  spreads  her  aery  sail, 
And  from  the  present  gloom  the  soul  conveys 
To  distant  summers  and  far  happier  days. 


SONNET. 

YE  unseen  spirits,  whose  wild  melodies, 
At  evening  rising  slow,  yet  sweetly  clear, 
Steal  on  the  musing  poet's  pensive  ear, 

As  by  the  wood-spring  stretched  supine  he  lies ; 

When  he,  who  now  invokes  you,  low  is  laid, 
His  tired  frame  resting  on  the  earth's  cold  bed ; 

Hold  ye  your  nightly  vigils  o'er  his  head, 
And  chant  a  dirge  to  his  reposing  shade ! 

For  he  was  wont  to  love  your  madrigals ; 
And  often  by  the  haunted  stream,  that  laves 
The  dark  sequestered  woodland's  inmost  caves, 

Would  sit  and  listen  to  the  dying  falls, 

Till  the  full  tear  would  quiver  hi  his  eye, 

And  his  big    heart  would   heave   with    mournful 
ecstasy. 


192  THE   POEMS    OF 


SONNET  TO  A  TAPER. 

'Tis  midnight.     On  the  globe  dead  slumber  sits, 

And  all  is  silence  —  in  the  hour  of  sleep ; 
Save  when  the  hollow  gust,  that  swells  by  fits, 

In  the  dark  wood  roars  fearfully  and  deep. 
I  wake  alone  to  listen  and  to  weep, 

To  watch  my  taper,  thy  pale  beacon  burn ; 
And,  as  still  Memory  does  her  vigils  keep, 

To  think  of  days  that  never  can  return. 
By  thy  pale  ray  I  raise  my  languid  head, 

My  eye  surveys  the  solitary  gloom  ; 
And  the  sad  meaning  tear,  unmixed  with  dread, 

Tells  thou  dost  light  me  to  the  silent  tomb. 
Like  thee  I  wane ;  —  like  thine  my  life's  last  ray 
Will  fade  in  loneliness,  unwept,  away. 


SONNET  TO  MY  MOTHER. 

AND  canst  thou,  Mother,  for  a  moment  think 
That  we,  thy  children,  when  old  age  shall  shed 
Its  blanching  honours  on  thy  weary  head, 

Could  from  our  best  of  duties  ever  shrink  ? 

Sooner  the  sun  from  his  high  sphere  should  sink 
Than  we,  ungrateful,  leave  thee  in  that  day, 
To  pine  in  solitude  thy  life  away, 

Or  shun  thee,  tottering  on  the  grave's  cold  brink. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  193 

Banish  the  thought !  —  where'er  our  steps  may  roam, 
O'er  smiling  plains,  or  wastes  without  a  tree, 
Still  will  fond  memory  point  our  hearts  to  thee, 

And  paint  the  pleasures  of  thy  peaceful  home ; 

While  duty  bids  us  all  thy  griefs  assuage, 

And  smooth  the  pillow  of  thy  sinking  age. 


SONNET. 
YES,  'twill  be  over  soon.  —  This  sickly  dream 

Of  life  will  vanish  from  my  feverish  brain ; 
And  death  my  wearied  spirit  will  redeem 

From  this  wild  region  of  unvaried  pain. 
Yon  brook  will  glide  as  softly  as  before, 

Yon  landscape  smile,  yon  golden  harvest  grow, 
Yon  sprightly  lark  on  mountain  wing  will  soar 

When  Henry's  name  is  heard  no  more  below. 
I  sigh  when  all  my  youthful  friends  caress, 

They  laugh  in  health,  and  future  evils  brave ; 
Them  shall  a  wife  and  smiling  children  bless, 

While  I  am  mouldering  in  the  silent  grave. 
God  of  the  just,  Thou  gavest  the  bitter  cup ; 
I  bow  to  thy  behest,  and  drink  it  up. 


SONNET  TO   CONSUMPTION. 
GENTLY,  most  gently,  on  thy  victim's  head, 
Consumption,  lay  thine  hand !  —  let  me  decay" 
Like  the  expiring  lamp,  unseen,  away, 
And  softly  go  to  slumber  with  the  dead. 
13 


194  THE   POEMS    OF 

And  if  'tis  true, what  holy  men  have  said, 
That  strains  angelic  oft  foretell  the  day 
Of  death  to  those  good  men  who  fall  thy  prey, 

O  let  the  aerial  music  round  my  bed, 

Dissolving  sad  in  dying  symphony, 

Whisper  the  solemn  warning  in  mine  ear ; 

That  I  may  hid  my  weeping  friends  good-by 
Ere  I  depart  upon  my  journey  drear ; 

And,  smiling  faintly  on  the  painful  past, 

Compose  my  decent  head,  and  breathe  my  last. 


SONNET. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  M.  DESBARREAUX. 

THY  judgments.  Lord,  are  just :  thou  lovest  to  wear 

The  face  of  pity  and  of  love  divine ; 
But  mine  is  guilt  —  thou  must  not,  canst  not  spare, 

While  heaven  is  true,  and  equity  is  thine. 
Yes,  oh  my  God !  —  such  crimes  as  mine,  so  dread, 

Leave  but  the  choice  of  punishment  to  thee ; 
Thy  interest  calls  for  judgment  on  my  head, 

And  even  thy  mercy  dares  not  plead  for  me ! 
Thy  will  be  done,  since  'tis  thy  glory's  due, 

Did  from  mine  eyes  the  endless  torrents  flow ; 
Smite  —  it  is  time  —  though  endless  death  ensue, 

I  bless  the  avenging  hand  that  lays  me  low. 
But  on  what  spot  shall  fall  thine  anger's  flood, 
That  has  not  first  been  drenched  in  Christ's  atoning 
blood? 


KIRKE    WHITE.  195 


SONNET. 

WHEN  I  sit  musing  on  the  chequered  past 
(A  term  much  darkened  with  untimely  woes), 
My  thoughts  revert  to  her,  for  whom  still  flows 

The  tear,  though  half  disowned;  and  binding  fast 

Pride's  stubborn  cheat  to  my  too  yielding  heart, 
I  say  to  her  she  robbed  me  of  my  rest, 
When  that  was  all  my  wealth.   'Tis  true  my  breast 

Received  from  her  this  wearying,  lingering  smart ; 

Yet,  ah !  I  cannot  bid  her  form  depart ; 

Though  wronged,  I  love  her  —  yet  in  anger  love, 
For  she  was  most  unworthy.  —  Then  I  prove 

Vindictive  joy ;  and  on  my  stern  front  gleams, 

Throned  in  dark  clouds,  inflexible     .     .     . 

The  native  pride  of  my  much  injured  heart 


SONNET. 

SWEET  to  the  gay  of  heart  is  Summer's  smile, 

Sweet  the  wild  music  of  the  laughing  Spring ; 
But  ah !  my  soul  far  other  scenes  beguile, 

Where  gloomy  storms  their  sullen  shadows  fling 
Is  it  for  me  to  strike  the  Idalian  string  — 

Raise  the  soft  music  of  the  warbling  wire, 
While  in  my  ears  the  howls  of  furies  ring, 

And  melancholy  wastes  the  vital  fire  ? 


196  THE    POEMS    OP 

Away  with  thoughts  like  these  —  to  some  lone  cave 
Where  howls  the  shrill  blast,  and  where  sweeps 
the  wave, 

Direct  my  steps ;  there,  in  the  lonely  drear, 
I'll  sit  remote  from  worldly  noise,  and  muse 
Till  through  my  soul  shall  Peace  her  balm  infuse, 

And  whisper  sounds  of  comfort  in  mine  ear. 


SONNET. 

QUICK  o'er  the  wintry  waste  dart  fiery  shafts  — 

Bleak  blows  the  blast  —  now  howls  —  then  faintly 

dies  — 
And  oft  upon  its  awful  wings  it  wafts 

The  dying  wanderer's  distant,  feeble  cries. 
Now,  when  athwart  the  gloom  gaunt  Horror  stalks, 

And  midnight  hags  their  damned  vigils  hold, 
The  pensive  poet  'mid  the  wild  waste  walks, 

And  ponders  on  the  ills  life's  paths  unfold. 
Mindless  of  dangers  hovering  round,  he  goes, 

Insensible  to  every  outward  ill ; 
Yet  oft  his  bosom  heaves  with  rending  throes, 

And  oft  big  tears  adown  his  worn  cheeks  trill. 
Ah !  'tis  the  anguish  of  a  mental  sore, 
Which  gnaws  his  heart,  and  bids  him  hope  no  more. 


KIKKE    WHITE.  197 


BALLADS,  SONGS,  AND  HYMNS. 


GONDOLINE. 

A  BALLAD. 

THE  night  it  was  still,  and  the  moon  it  shone 

Serenely  on  the  sea, 
And  the  waves  at  the  foot  of  the  rifted  rock 

They  murmured  pleasantly, 

When  Gondoline  roamed  along  the  shore, 

A  maiden  full  fair  to  the  sight ; 
Though  love  had  made  bleak  the  rose  on  her  cheek, 

And  turn'd  it  to  deadly  white. 

Her  thoughts  they  were  drear,  and  the  silent  tear 

It  filled  her  faint  blue  eye, 
As  oft  she  heard,  in  fancy's  ear, 

Her  Bertrand's  dying  sigh. 

Her  Bertrand  was  the  bravest  youth 

Of  all  our  good  Icing's  men, 
And  he  was  gone  to  the  Holy  Land 

To  fight  the  Saracen. 


198  THE   POEMS    OF 

And  many  a  month  had  passed  away, 

And  many  a  rolling  year, 
But  nothing  the  maid  from  Palestine 

Could  of  her  lover  hear. 

Full  oft  she  vainly  tried  to  pierce 

The  ocean's  misty  face ; 
Full  oft  she  thought  her  lover's  bark 

She  on  the  wave  could  trace. 

And  every  night  she  placed  a  light 
In  the  high  rock's  lonely  tower, 

To  guide  her  lover  to -the  land, 

Should  the  murky  tempest  lower. 

But  now  despair  had  seized  her  breast, 

And  sunken  in  her  eye ; 
"  Oh  tell  me  but  if  Bertrand  live, 

And  I  in  peace  will  die." 

She  wander'd  o'er  the  lonely  shore, 

The  curlew  screamed  above, 
She  heard  the  scream  with  a  sickening  heart, 

Much  boding  on  her  love. 

Yet  still  she  kept  her  lonely  way, 

And  this  was  all  her  cry. 
"  Oh !  tell  me  but  if  Bertrand  live, 

And  I  in  peace  shall  die." 


KIRKE    WHITE.  199 

And  now  she  came  to  a  horrible  rift 

All  in  the  rock's  hard  side, 
A  bleak  and  blasted  oak  o'erspread 

The  cavern  yawning  wide. 

And  pendant  from  its  dismal  top 

The  deadly  nightshade  hung ; 
The  hemlock  and  the  aconite 

Across  the  mouth  was  flung. 

And  all  within  was  dark  and  drear, 

And  all  without  was  calm ; 
Yet  Gondoline  entered,  her  soul  upheld 

By  some  deep-working  charm. 

And  as  she  entered  the  cavern  wide, 

The  moonbeam  gleamed  pale, 
And  she  saw  a  snake  on  the  craggy  rock, 

It  clung  by  its  slimy  tail. 

Her  foot  it  slipped,  and  she  stood  aghast, 

She  trod  on  a  bloated  toad ; 
Yet,  still  upheld  by  the  secret  charm, 

She  kept  upon  her  road. 

And  now  upon  her  frozen  ear 

Mysterious  sounds  arose ; 
So,  on  the  mountain's  piny  top 

The  blustering  north  wind  blows. 


200  THE   POEMS    OF 

Then  furious  peals  of  laughter  loud 

Were  heard  with  thundering  sound, 

Till  they  died  away  in  soft  decay, 
Low  whispering  o'er  the  ground. 

Yet  still  the  maiden  onward  went, 
The  charm  yet  onward  led, 

Though  each  big  glaring  ball  of  sight 
Seem'd  bursting  from  her  head. 

But  now  a  pale  blue  light  she  saw, 
It  from  a  distance  came ; 

She  followed,  till  upon  her  sight 
Burst  full  a  flood  of  flame. 

She  stood  appalled ;  yet  still  the  charm 
Upheld  her  sinking  soul ; 

Yet  each  bent  knee  the  other  smote, 
And  each  wild  eye  did  roll. 

And  such  a  sight  as  she  saw  there 

No  mortal  saw  before, 
And  such  a  sight  as  she  saw  there 

No  mortal  shall  see  more. 

A  burning  cauldron  stood  in  the  midst, 
The  flame  was  fierce  and  high, 

And  all  the  cave  so  wide  and  long 
Was  plainly  seen  thereby. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  201 

And  round  about  the  cauldron  stout 
Twelve  withered  witches  stood ; 

Their  waists  were  bound  with  living  snakes, 
And  their  hair  was  stiff  with  blood. 

Their  hands  were  gory  too ;  and  red 
And  fiercely  flamed  their  eyes : 

And  they  were  muttering  indistinct 
Their  hellish  mysteries. 

And  suddenly  they  joined  their  hands, 

And  utter'd  a  joyous  cry, 
And  round  about  the  cauldron  stout 

They  danced  right  merrily. 

And  now  they  stopped ;  and  each  prepared 

To  tell  what  she  had  done, 
Since  last  the  lady  of  the  night 

Her  waning  course  had  run. 

Behind  a  rock  stood  Gondoline, 

Thick  weeds  her  face  did  veil, 
And  she  leaned  fearful  forwarder, 

To  hear  the  dreadful  tale. 

The  first  arose :  She  said  she'd  seen 

Rare  sport  since  the  blind  cat  mewed, 

She  M  been  to  sea  in  a  leaky  sieve, 
And  a  jovial  storm  had  brewed. 


202  THE   POEMS    OP 

She'd  called  around  the  winged  winds, 

And  raised  a  devilish  rout ; 
And  she  laughed  so  loud,  the  peals  were  heard 

Full  fifteen  leagues  about. 

She  said  there  was  a  little  bark 

Upon  the  roaring  wave, 
And  there  was  a  woman  there  who'd  been 

To  see  her  husband's  grave. 

And  she  had  got  a  child  in  her  arms, 

It  was  her  only  child, 
And  oft  its  little  infant  pranks 

Her  heavy  heart  beguiled. 

And  there  was  too  in  that  same  bark 

A  father  and  his  son : 
The  lad  was  sickly,  and  the  sire 

Was,  old  and  woe-begone. 

And  when  the  tempest  waxed  strong, 

And  the  bark  could  no  more  it  'bide, 

She  said  it  was  jovial  fun  to  hear 
How  the  poor  devils  cried. 

The  mother  clasped  her  orphan  child 

Unto  her  breast  and  wept ; 
And  sweetly  folded  in  her  arms 

The  careless  baby  slept. 


KIBKE    WHITE.  203 

And  she  told  how,  in  the  shape  of  the  wind, 

As  manfully  it  roared, 
She  twisted  her  hand  in  the  infant's  hair, 

And  threw  it  overboard. 

And  to  have  seen  the  mother's  pangs, 

'Twas  a  glorious  sight  to  see ; 
The  crew  could  scarcely  hold  her  down 

From  jumping  in  the  sea. 

The  hag  held  a  lock  of  her  hair  in  her  hand, 

And  it  was  soft  and  fair : 
It  must  have  been  a  lovely  child, 

To  have  had  such  lovely  hair. 

And  she  said  the  father  in  his  arms 

He  held  his  sickly  son, 
And  his  dying  throes  they  fast  arose, 

His  pains  were  nearly  done. 

And  she  throttled  the  youth  with  her  sinewy  hands, 

And  his  face  grew  deadly  blue ; 
And  the  father  he  tore  his  thin  gray  hair, 

And  kissed  the  livid  hue. 

And  then  she  told  how  she  bored  a  hole 

In  the  bark,  and  it  fill'd  away ; 
And  'twas  rare  to  hear  how  some  did  swear, 

And  some  did  vow  and  pray. 


204  THE   POEMS    OF 

The  man  and  woman  they  soon  were  dead, 
The  sailors  their  strength  did  urge ; 

But  the  billows  that  beat  were  their  winding-sheet, 
And  the  winds  sung  their  funeral  dirge. 

She  threw  the  infant's  hair  in  the  fire, 

The  red  flame  flamed  high, 
And  round  about  the  cauldron  stout 

They  danced  right  merrily. 

The  second  begun :     She  said  she  had  done 
The  task  that  Queen  Hecate  had  set  her, 

And  that  the  devil,  the  father  of  evil, 
Had  never  accomplish'd  a  better. 

She  said,  there  was  an  aged  woman, 

And  she  had  a  daughter  fair, 
Whose  evil  habits  filled  her  heart 

With  misery  and  care. 

The  daughter  had  a  paramour, 

A  wicked  man  was  he, 
And  oft  the  woman  him  against 

Did  murmur  grievously. 

And  the  hag  had  worked  the  daughter  up 

To  murder  her  old  mother, 
That  then  she  might  seize  on  all  her  goods, 

And  wanton  with  her  lover. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  205 

And  one  night  as  the  old  woman 

Was  sick  and  ill  in  bed, 
And  pondering  solely  on  the  life 

Her  wicked  daughter  led, 

She  heard  her  footstep  on  the  floor, 
And  she  raised  her  pallid  head, 

And  she  saw  her  daughter,  with  a  knife, 
Approaching  to  her  bed. 

And  said,  "  My  child,  I  'm  very  ill, 

I  have  not  long  to  live, 
Now  kiss  my  cheek,  that  ere  I  die 

Thy  sins  I  may  forgive." 

And  the  murderess  bent  to  kiss  her  cheek, 
And  she  lifted  the  sharp  bright  knife, 

And  the  mother  saw  her  fell  intent, 
And  hard  she  begged  for  life. 

But  prayers  would  nothing  her  avail, 
And  she  screamed  aloud  with  fear, 

But  the  house  was  lone,  and  the  piercing  screams 
Could  reach  no  human  ear. 

And  though  that  she  was  sick,  and  old, 
She  struggled  hard,  and  fought ; 

The  murderess  cut  three  fingers  through 
Ere  she  could  reach  her  throat 


206  THE   POEMS    OF 

And  the  hag  she  held  her  fingers  up, 
The  skin  was  mangled  sore, 

And  they  all  agreed  a  nobler  deed 
Was  never  done  before. 

And  she  threw  the  fingers  in  the  fire, 
The  red  flame  flamed  high, 

And  round  about  the  cauldron  stout 
They  danced  right  merrily. 

The  third  arose :     She  said  she'd  been 

To  holy  Palestine ; 
And  seen  more  blood  in  one  short  day 

Than  they  had  all  seen  in  nine. 

Now  Gondoline,  with  fearful  steps, 
Drew  nearer  to  the  flame, 

For  much  she  dreaded  now  to  hear 
Her  hapless  lover's  name. 

The  hag  related  then  the  sports 

Of  that  eventful  day, 
When  on  the  well  contested  field 

Full  fifteen  thousand  lay. 

She  said  that  she  in  human  gore 
Above  the  knees  did  wade, 

And  that  no  tongue  could  truly  tell 
The  tricks  she  there  had  played. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  207 

There  was  a  gallant  featured  youth, 

Who  like  a  hero  fought ; 
He  kiss'd  a  bracelet  on  his  wrist, 

And  every  danger  sought. 

And  in  a  vassal's  garb  disguised, 

Unto  the  knight  she  sues, 
And  tells  him  she  from  Britain  comes, 

And  brings  unwelcome  news. 

That  three  days  ere  she  had  embarked, 

His  love  had  given  her  hand 
Unto  a  wealthy  Thane  :  —  and  thought 

Hun  dead  in  Holy  Land. 

And  to  have  seen  how  he  did  writhe 

When  this  her  tale  she  told, 
It  would  have  made  a  wizard's  blood 

Within  his  heart  run  cold. 

Then  fierce  he  spurred  his  warrior  steed, 

And  soilght  the  battle's  bed ; 
And  soon  all  mangled  o'er  with  wounds 

He  on  the  cold  turf  bled. 

And  from  his  smoking  corse  she  tore 

His  heat},  half  clove  in  two. 
She  ceased,  and  from  beneath  her  garb 

The  bloody  trophy  drew. 


208  THE    POEMS    OF  x 

The  eyes  were  starting  from  their  socks, 
The  mouth  it  ghastly  grinned, 

And  there  was  a  gash  across  the  brow, 
The  scalp  was  nearly  skinned. 

'Twas  Bertrand's  head !   With  a  terrible  scream 

The  maiden  gave  a  spring 
And  from  her  fearful  hiding-place 

She  fell  into  the  ring. 

The  lights  they  fled  —  the  cauldron  sunk, 
Deep  thunders  shook  the  dome, 

And  hollow  peals  of  laughter  came 
Resounding  through  the  gloom. 

Insensible  the  maiden  lay 

Upon  the  hellish  ground, 
And  still  mysterious  sounds  were  heard 

At  intervals  around. 

She  woke  —  she  half  arose  —  and  wild 

She  cast  a  horrid  glare, 
The  sounds  had  ceased,  the  lights  had  fled, 

And  all  was  stillness  there. 

And  through  an  awning  in  the  rock 

The  moon  it  sweetly  shone, 
And  showed  a  river  in  the  cave 

Which  dismally  did  moan. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  209 

The  stream  was  black,  it  sounded  deep 
As  it  rushed  the  rocks  between, 

It  offered  well,  for  madness  fired 
The  breast  of  Gondoline. 

She  plunged  in,  the  torrent  moaned 

With  its  accustomed  sound, 
And  hollow  peals  of  laughter  loud 

Again  rebellowed  round. 

The  maid  was  seen  no  more.  —  But  oft 

Her  ghost  is  known  to  glide, 
At  midnight's  silent,  solemn  hour, 

Along  the  ocean's  side. 


A    BALLAD. 

BE  hushed,  be  hushed,  ye  bitter  winds, 

Ye  pelting  rains,  a  little  rest ; 
Lie  still,  lie  still,  ye  busy  thoughts, 

That  wring  with  grief  my  aching  breast. 

Oh !  cruel  was  my  faithless  love, 
To  triumph  o'er  an  artless  maid ; 

Oh !  cruel  was  my  faithless  love, 

To  leave  the  breast  by  him  betrayed. 

When  exiled  from  my  native  home, 
He  should  have  wiped  the  bitter  tear ; 

Nor  left  me  faint  and  lone  to  roam, 
A  heart-sick  weary  wanderer  here. 
14 


210  THE   POEMS    OP 

My  child  moans  sadly  in  my  arms, 
The  winds  they  will  not  let  it  sleep : 

Ah,  little  knows  the  hapless  babe 

What  makes  its  wretched  mother  weep  ! 

Now  lie  thee  still,  my  infant  dear, 
I  cannot  bear  thy  sobs  to  see, 

Harsh  is  thy  father,  little  one, 
And  never  will  he  shelter  thee. 

Oh,  that  I  were  but  in  my  grave, 
And  winds  were  piping  o'er  me  loud, 

And  thou,  my  poor,  my  orphan  babe, 
Wert  nestling  in  thy  mother's  shroud  I 


THE  LULLABY  OF  A  FEMALE  CONVICT  TO 

HER  CHILD  THE  NIGHT  PREVIOUS 

TO  EXECUTION. 

SLEEP,  baby  mine,*  enkerchieft  on  my  bosom, 
Thy  cries  they  pierce  again  my  bleeding  breast ; 

Sleep,  baby  mine,  not  long  thou 'It  have  a  mother 
To  lull  thee  fondly  in  her  arms  to  rest. 

Baby,  why  dost  thou  keep  this  sad  complaining  ? 

Long  from  mine  eyes  have  kindly  slumbers  fled ; 
Hush,  hush,  my  babe,  the  night  is  quickly  waning, 

And  I  would  fain  compose  my  aching  head. 

*  Sir  Philip  Sidney  has  a  poem,  beginning,    "  Sleep,  baby 
mine." 


KIRKE    WHITE. 


2]f 


Poor   wayward  wretch!    and  who   will   heed  thy 

weeping, 

When  soon  an  outcast  on  the  world  thou  'It  be  ? 
Who  then  will  soothe  thee,  when  thy  mother 's  sleep- 
ing 
In  her  low  grave  of  shame  and  infamy  ? 

Sleep,  baby  mine  —  to-morrow  I  must  leave  thee, 
And  I  would  snatch  an  interval  of  rest : 

Sleep  these  last  moments  ere  the  laws  bereave  thee, 
For  never  more  thou  'It  press  a  mother's  breast. 


THE  SAVOYARD'S  RETURN. 

OH  !  yonder  is  the  well  known  spot, 

My  dear,  my  long  lost  native  home  I 
Oh,  welcome  is  yon  little  cot, 

Where  I  shall  rest,  no  more  to  roam ! 
Oh !  I  have  travelled  far  and  wide, 

O'er  many  a  distant  foreign  land ; 
Each  place,  each  province  I  have  tried, 

And  sung  and  danced  my  saraband. 
But  all  their  charms  could  not  prevail 
To  steal  my  heart  from  yonder  vale. 

Of  distant  climes  the  false  report, 
It  lured  me  from  my  native  land ; 


*212 


THE   POEMS    OP 

It  bade  me  rove  —  my  sole  support 

My  cymbals  and  my  saraband. 
The  woody  dell,  the  hanging  rock, 

The  chamois  skipping  o'er  the  heights ; 
The  plain  adorned  with  many  a  flock, 
And,  oh !  a  thousand  more  delights, 
That  grace  yon  dear  beloved  retreat, 
Have  backward  won  my  weary  feet. 

Now  safe  returned,  with  wandering  tired, 

No  more  my  little  home  I'll  leave ; 
And  many  a  tale  of  what  I've  seen 

Shall  while  away  the  winter's  eve. 
Oh !  I  'have  wandered  far  and  wide, 

O'er  many  a  distant  foreign  land ; 
Each  place,  each  province  I  have  tried, 

And  sung  and  danced  my  saraband  ; 
But  all  their  charms  could  not  prevail 
To  steal  my  heart  from  yonder  vale. 


A  PASTORAL  SONG. 

COME,  Anna !  come,  the  morning  dawns, 

Faint  streaks  of  radiance  tinge  the  skies ; 
Come,  let  us  seek  the  dewy  lawns, 
And  watch  the  early  lark  arise ; 
While  nature,  clad  in  vesture  gay, 
Hails  the  loved  return  of  day. 


KIKKE    WHITE.  213 

Our  flocks,  that  nip  the  scanty  blade 

Upon  the  moor,  shall  seek  the  vale ; 
And  then,  secure  beneath  the  shade, 
We  '11  listen  to  the  throstle's  tale ; 
And  watch  the  silver  clouds  above, 
As  o'er  the  azure  vault  they  rove. 

Come,  Anna !  come,  and  bring  thy  lute, 

That  with  its  tones,  so  softly  sweet, 
In  cadence  with  my  mellow  flute, 
We  may  beguile  the  noontide  heat ; 
While  near  the  mellow  bee  shall  join, 
To  raise  a  harmony  divine. 

And  then  at  eve,  when  silence  reigns, 

Except  when  heard  the  beetle's  hum, 
We'll  leave  the  sober  tinted  plains, 

To  these  sweet  heights  again  we  '11  come ; 
And  thou  to  thy  soft  lute  shalt  play 
A  solemn  vesper  to  departing  day. 


MELODY. 


YES,  once  more  that  dying  strain, 
Anna,  touch  thy  lute  for  me ; 

Sweet,  when  pity's  tones  complain, 
Doubly  sweet  is  melody. 


214  THE   POEMS    OP 

While  the  Virtues  thus  enweave 
Mildly  soft  the  thrilling  song, 

Winter's  long  and  lonesome  eve 
Glides  unfelt,  unseen,  along. 

Thus  when  life  hath  stolen  away, 
And  the  wintry  night  is  near, 

Thus  shall  virtue's  friendly  ray 
Age's  closing  evening,  cheer. 


SONG. 

BY    WALLER. 

A  Lady  of  Cambridge  lent  Waller's  Poems  to  the  Author,  and 
when  he  returned  them  to  her,  she  discovered  an  additional 
stanza  written  by  him  at  the  bottom  of  the  song  here  copied. 

Go,  lovely  rose ! 
Tell  her,  that  wastes  her  time  on  me, 

That  now  she  knows, 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 

Tell  her  that's  young, 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide, 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  215 

Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired ; 

Bid  her  come  forth, 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die,  that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  hi  thee  ; 

How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share, 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair. 

[Yet,  though  thou  fade, 
From  thy  dead  leaves  let  fragrance  rise ; 

And  teach  the  maid 

That  Goodness  Tune's  rude  hand  defies, 
That  Virtue  lives  when  Beauty  dies. 

H.  K.  WHITE.] 


THE   WANDERING  BOY. 

A  SONG. 

WHEN  the  winter  wind  whistles  along  the  wild 

moor, 

And  the  cottager  shuts  on  the  beggar  his  door ; 
When  the  chilling  tear  stands  yi  my  comfortless  eye, 
Oh,  how  hard  is  the  lot  of  the  Wandering  Boy. 


216  THE    POEMS    OF 

The  winter  is  cold,  and  I  have  no  vest, 
And  my  heart  it  is  cold  as  it  beats  in  my  breast ; 
No  father,  no  mother,  no  kindred  have  I, 
For  I  am  a  parentless  Wandering  Boy. 

Yet  I  had  a  home,  and  I  once  had  a  sire, 
A  mother  who  granted  each  infant  desire ; 
X)ur  cottage  it  stood  in  a  wood-embowered  vale, 
Where  the   ringdove   would   warble  its  sorrowful 
tale. 

But  my  father  and  mother  were  summoned  away, 
And  they  left  me  to  hard-hearted  strangers  a  prey ; 
I  fled  from  their  rigour  with  many  a  sigh, 
And  now  I'm  a  poor  little  Wandering  Boy. 

The  wind  it  is  keen,  and  the  snow  loads  the  gale, 
And  no  one  will  list  to  my  innocent  tale  ; 
I'll  go  to  the  grave  where  my  parents  both  lie, 
And  death  shall  befriend  the  poor  Wandering  Boy. 


CANZONET. 

MAIDEN  !  wrap  thy  mantle  round  thee, 
Cold  the  rain  beats  on  thy  breast : 

Why  should  Horror's  voice  astound  thee  ? 
Death  can  bid  the  wretched  rest ! 


KIKKE    WHITE.  217 

All  under  the  tree 
Thy  bed  may  be, 
And  thou  mayst  slumber  peacefully. 

Maiden !  once  gay  pleasure  knew  thee ; 
Now  thy  cheeks  are  pale  and  deep : 
Love  has  been  a  felon  to  thee, 
Yet,  poor  maiden,  do  not  weep ; 
There 's  rest  for  thee 
All  under  the  tree, 
Where  thou  wilt  sleep  most  peacefully. 


SONG. 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  AGE  OF  FOURTEEN. 

SOFTLY,  softly  blow,  ye  breezes, 

Gently  o'er  my  Edwy  fly ! 
Lo !  he  slumbers,  slumbers  sweetly ; 
Softly,  zephyrs,  pass  him  by ! 
My  love  is  asleep, 
He  lies  by  the  deep, 
All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 

I  have  covered  him  with  rushes, 
Water-flags,  and  branches  dry. 

Edwy,  long  have  been  thy  slumbers ; 
Edwy,  Edwy,  ope  thine  eye ! 


218  THE   POEMS    OP 

My  love  is  asleep, 
He  lies  by  the  deep, 
All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 

Still  he  sleeps ;  he  will  not  waken, 

Fastly  closed  is  his  eye ; 
Paler  is  his  cheek,  and  chiller 
Than  the  icy  moon  on  high. 
Alas !  he  is  dead, 
He  has  chose  his  death-bed 
All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 

Is  it,  is  it  so,  my  Edwy  ? 

Will  thy  slumbers  never  fly  ? 
Couldst  thou  think  I  would  survive  thee  ? 
No,  my  love,  thou  bid'st  me  die. 
Thou  bid'st  me  seek 
Thy  death-bed  bleak 
All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 

I  will  gently  kiss  thy  cold  lips, 

On  thy  breast  I'll  lay  my  head, 
And  the  winds  shall  sing  our  death  dirge, 
And  our  shroud  the  waters  spread ; 
The  moon  will  smile  sweet, 
And  the  wild  wave  will  beat, 
Oh !  so  softly  o'er  our  lonely  bed. 


KIEKE    WHITE.  219 


THE  SHIPWRECKED   SOLITARY'S  SONG 
TO   THE  NIGHT. 

THOU,  spirit  of  the  spangled  night, ! 
I  woo  thee  from  the  watchtower  high, 
Where  thou  dost  sit  to  guide  the  bark 
Of  lonely  mariner. 

The  winds  are  whistling  o'er  the  wolds, 
The  distant  main  is  moaning  low ; 
Come,  let  us  sit  and  weave  a  song  — 
A  melancholy  song ! 

Sweet  is  the  scented  gale  of  morn, 
And  sweet  the  noontide's  fervid  beam, 
But  sweeter  far  the  solemn  calm 

That  marks  thy  mournful  reign. 

I've  passed  here  many  a  lonely  year, 
And  never  human  voice  have  heard ; 
I've  pass'd  here  many  a  lonely  year, 
A  solitary  man. 

And  I  have  lingered  in  the  shade, 
From  sultry  noon's  hot  beams ;  and  I 
Have  knelt  before  my  wicker  door, 
To  sing  my  evening  song. 


220  THE   POEMS    OF 

And  I  have  hailed  the  gray  morn  high, 
On  the  blue  mountain's  misty  brow, 
And  tried  to  tune  my  little  reed 
To  hymns  of  harmony. 

But  never  could  I  tune  my  reed, 
At  morn,  or  noon,  or  eve,  so  sweet, 
As  when  upon  the  ocean  shore 
I  hail'd  thy  star-beam  mild. 

The  dayspring  brings  not  joy  to  me, 
The  moon  it  whispers  not  of  peace ; 
But  oh !  when  darkness  robes  the  heavens, 
My  woes  are  mix'd  with  joy. 

And  then  I  talk,  and  often  think 
Aerial  voices  answer  me ; 
And  oh !  I  am  not  then  alone  — 
A  solitary  man. 

And  when  the  blustering  winter  winds 
Howl  in  the  woods  that  clothe  my  cave, 
I  lay  me  on  my  lonely  mat, 

And  pleasant  are  my  dreams. 

And  fancy  gives  me  back  my  wife ; 
And  fancy  gives  me  back  my  child ; 
She  gives  me  back  my  little  home, 
And  all  its  placid  joys. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  221 

Then  hateful  is  the  morning  hour, 
That  calls  me  from  the  dream  of  bliss, 
To  find  myself  still  lone,  and  hear 
The  same  dull  sounds  again. 

The  deep-toned  winds,  the  moaning  sea, 
The  whispering  of  the  boding  trees, 
The  brook's  eternal  flow,  and  oft 
The  condor's  hollow  scream. 


THE  WONDERFUL  JUGGLER. 


COME  all  ye  true  hearts,  who,  Old  England  to  save, 
Now  shoulder  the  musket,  or  plough  the  rough  wave. 
I  will  sing  you  a  song  of  a  wonderful  fellow, 
Who  has  ruined  Jack  Pudding,  and  broke  Punchi- 
nello. 

Derry  down,  down,  high  deny  down. 

This  juggler  is  little,  and  ugly,  and  black, 
But,  like  Atlas,  he  stalks  with  the  world  at  his  back ; 
'Tis  certain,  all  fear  of  the  devil  he  scorns; 
Some   say  they  are   cousins;  we  know  he  wears 
horns. 

Derry  down. 


222  THE   POEMS    OF 

At  hop,  skip,  and  jump,  who  so  famous  as  he  ? 
He  hopped  o'er  an  army,  he  skipped  o'er  the  sea ; 
And  he  jumped  from  the  desk  of  a  village  attorney 
To  the  throne  of  the  Bourbons  —  a  pretty  long  jour- 
ney. 

Derry  down. 

He  tosses  up  kingdoms  the  same  as  a  ball, 
And  his  cup  is  so  fashioned  it  catches  them  all ; 
The  Pope  and  Grand  Turk  have  been  heard  to  de- 
clare 

His  skill  at  the  long  bow  has  made  them  both  stare. 

Derry  down. 

He  has  shown  off  his  tricks  in  France,  Italy,  Spain ; 
And  Germany  too  knows  his  legerdemain ; 
So  hearing  John  Bull  has  a  taste  for  strange  sights, 
He 's  coming  to  London  to  put  us  to  rights. 

Derry  down. 

To  encourage  his  puppets  to  venture  this  trip, 
He  has  built  them  such  boats  as  can  conquer  a  ship ; 
With  a  gun  of  good  metal,  that  shoots  out  so  far, 
It  can  silence  the  broadsides  of  three  men  of  war. 

Derry  down. 

This  new  Katterfelto,  his  show  to  complete, 
Means  his  boats  should  all  sink  as  they  pass  by  our 
fleet ; 


KIRKE    WHITE.  223 

>»• 

Then,  as  under  the   ocean   their  course  they  steer 

right  on,  [Triton. 

They  can  pepper  their  foes  from  the  bed  of  old 

Derry  down. 

If  this  project  should  fail,  he  has  others  in  store  ; 
Wooden  horses,  for  instance,  may  bring  them  safe 

o'er; 

Or  the  genius  of  France  (as  the  Moniteur  tells) 
May  order  balloons,  or  provide  diving-bells. 

Derry  down. 

When  Philip  of  Spain  fitted  out  his  Armada, 
Britain  saw  his  designs,  and  could  meet  her  invader ; 
But  how  to  greet  Boney  she  never  will  know, 
If  he  comes  hi  the  style  of  a  fish  or  a  crow. 

Derry  down. 

Now  if  our  rude  tars  will  so  crowd  up  the  seas, 
That  his  boats  have  not  room  to  go  down  when  they 

please, 

Can't  he  wait  till  the  channel  is  quite  frozen  over, 
And  a  stout  pair  of  skates  will  transport  him  to 

Dover  ?  Derry  down. 

How  welcome  he  '11  be  it  were  needless  to  say ; 
Neither  he  nor  his  puppets  shall  e'er  go  away ; 
I  am  sure  at  his  heels  we  shall'  constantly  stick, 
Till  we  know  he  has  played  off  his  very  last  trick. 
Derry  down,  down,  high  derry  down. 


224  THE   POEMS    OF 


HYMN. 

In  Heaven  we  shall  be  purified,  so  as  to  be  able  to  endure  the 
splendours  of  the  Deity. 

AWAKE,  sweet  harp  of  Judah,  wake  ! 
Retune  thy  strings  for  Jesus'  sake  ; 
We  sing  the  Saviour  of  our  race, 
The  Lamb,  our  shield,  and  hiding-place. 

When  God's  right  arm  is  bared  for  war, 
And  thunders  clothe  his  cloudy  car, 
Where,  where,  oh,  where  shall  man  retire, 
To  escape  the  horrors  of  his  ire  ? 

'Tis  he,  the  Lamb,  to  him  we  fly, 
While  the  dread  tempest  passes  by ; 
God  sees  his  Well-beloved's  face, 
And  spares  us  in  our  hiding-place. 

Thus  while  we  dwell  in  this  low  scene, 
The  Lamb  is  our  unfailing  screen  ; 
To  him,  though  guilty,  still  we  run, 
And  God  still  spares  us  for  his  Son. 

While  yet  we  sojourn  here  below, 
Pollutions  still  our  hearts  o'erflow ; 
Fallen,  abject,  mean,  a  sentenced  race, 
We  deeply  need  a  hiding-place. 


K1KKE   WHITE.  225 

Yet,  courage  —  days  and  years  will  glide, 
And  we  shall  lay  these  clods  aside, 
Shall  be  baptized  in  Jordan's  flood, 
And  washed  in  Jesus'  cleansing  blood. 

Then  pure,  immortal,  sinless,  freed, 
"We  through  the  Lamb  shall  be  decreed ; 
Shall  meet  the  Father  face  to  face, 
And  need  no  more  a  hiding-place.* 


A  HYMN  FOR  FAMILY   WORSHIP. 

O  LORD,  another  day  is  flown, 

And  we,  a  lonely  band, 
Are  met  once  more  before  thy  throne, 

To  bless  thy  fostering  hand. 

And  wilt  thou  bend  a  listening  ear, 

To  praises  low  as  ours  ? 
Thou  wilt !  for  thou  dost  love  to  hear 

The  song  which  meekness  pours. 

And,  Jesus,  thou  thy  smiles  wilt  deign, 

As  we  before  thee  pray ; 
For  thou  didst  bless  the  infant  train, 

And  we  are  less  than  they. 

*  The  last  stanza  of  this  hymn  was  added  extemporaneously, 
by  the  Author,  one  summer  evening,  when  he  was  with  a  few 
friends  on  the  Trent,  and  singing  as  he  was  used  to  do  on  such 
occasions. 

15 


226  THE   POEMS    OF 

0  let  thy  grace  perform  its  part, 

And  let  contention  cease ; 
And  shed  abroad  in  every  heart 

Thine  everlasting  peace ! 

Thus  chastened,  cleansed,  entirely  thine, 

A  flock  by  Jesus  led ; 
The  Sun  of  Holiness  shall  shine 

In  glory  on  our  head. 

And  thou  wilt  turn  our  wandering  feet, 
And  thou  wilt  bless  our  way ; 

Till  worlds  shall  fade,  and  faith  shall  greet 
The  dawn  of  lasting  day. 


THE   STAR   OF  BETHLEHEM. 

WHEN  marshalled  on  the  nightly  plain, 
The  glittering  host  bestud  the  sky ; 

One  star  alone,  of  all  the  train, 

Can  fix  the  sinner's  wandering  eye. 

Hark !  hark !  to  God  the  chorus  breaks, 
From  every  host,  from  every  gem ; 

But  one  alone  the  Saviour  speaks, 
It  is  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

Once  on  the  raging  seas  I  rode, 

The  storm  was  loud,  —  the  night  was  dark, 
The  ocean  yawned  —  and  rudely  blowed 

The  wind  that  tossed  my  foundering  bark. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  227 

Deep  horror  then  my  vitals  froze, 

Death-struck,  I  ceased  the  tide  to  stem ; 

"When  suddenly  a  star  arose, 

It  was  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

It  was  my  guide,  my  light,  my  all, 

It  bade  my  dark  forebodings  cease ; 

And  through  the  storm  and  dangers'  thrall 
It  led  me  to  the  port  of  peace. 

Now  safely  moored  —  my  peril's  o'er, 
I'll  sing,  first  in  night's  diadem, 

For  ever,  and  for  evermore, 

The  Star !  —  The  Star  of  Bethlehem ! 


A  HYMN. 

0  LORD,  my  God,  in  mercy  turn, 
In  mercy  hear  a  sinner  mourn ! 
To  thee  I  call,  to  thee  I  cry, 

0  leave  me,  leave  me  not  to  die ! 

1  strove  against  thee,  Lord,  I  know, 

I  spurned  thy  grace,  I  mocked  thy  law ; 
The  hour  is  past  —  the  day's  gone  by, 
And  I  am  left  alone  to  die. 


228  THE  POEMS    OF   KIRKE   WHITE, 

O  pleasures  past,  what  are  ye  now 
But  thorns  about  my  bleeding  brow ! 
Spectres  that  hover  round  my  brain, 
And  aggravate  and  mock  my  pain: 

For  pleasure  I  have  given  my  soul ; 
Now,  Justice,  let  thy  thunders  roll ! 
Now,  Vengeance,  smile  —  and  with  a  blow 
Lay  the  rebellious  ingrate  low. 

Yet,  Jesus,  Jesus !  there  I'll  cling, 
111  crowd  beneath  his  sheltering  wing; 
I'll  clasp  the  cross,  and  holding  there, 
Even  me,  oh  bliss !  —  his  wrath  may  spare. 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 


EULOGY  ON  HENEY  KIKKE  WHITE,  BY 
LORD  BYRON. 

FROM  THE  ENGLISH  BAUDS  AND   SCOTCH   REVIEWERS. 

UNHAPPY  White !  *  while  life  was  in  its  spring, 
And  thy  young  muse  just  waved  her  joyous  wing, 
The  spoiler  came ;  and  all  thy  promise  fair 
Has  sought  the  grave,  to  sleep  for  ever  there. 
Oh !  what  a  noble  heart  was  here  undone, 
When  science  self  destroyed  her  favourite  son ! 
Yes !  she  too  much  indulged  thy  fond  pursuit, 
She  sow'd  the  seeds,  but  death  has  reaped  the  fruit. 
'Twas  thine  own  genius  gave  the  final  blow, 
And  helped  to  plant  the  wound  that  laid  thee  low. 
So  the  struck  eagle,  stretched  upon  the  plain, 

•  Henry  Kirke  White  died  at  Cambridge  in  October,  1806,  in 
consequence  of  too  much  exertion  in  the  pursuit  of  studies  that 
would  have  matured  a  mind  which  disease  and  poverty  could 
not  impair,  and  which  death  itself  destroyed  rather  than  sub- 
dued. His  poems  abound  in  such  beauties  as  must  impress  the 
reader  with  the  liveliest  regret  that  so  short  a  period  was  allotted 
to  talents,  which  would  have  dignified  even  the  sacred  functions 
he  was  destined  to  assume. 


230  TRIBUTARY   VERSES. 

No  more  through  rolling  clouds  to  soar  again, 
Viewed  his  own  feather  on  the  fatal  dart, 
And  winged  the  shaft  that  quivered  in  his  heart. 
Keen  were  his  pangs,  but  keener  far  to  feel, 
He  nursed  the  pinion  which  impelled  the  steel ; 
While  the  same  plumage  that  had  warmed  his  nest 
Drank  the  last  life-drop  of  his  bleeding  breast. 


SONNET   ON  HENRY  KIRKE   WHITE. 

BY   CAPEL  LOFFT. 

MASTER  so  early  of  the  various  lyre 

Energic,  pure,  sublime !  —  Thus  art  thou  gone  ? 

In  its  bright  dawn  of  fame  that  spirit  flown, 
Which  breathed  such  sweetness,  tenderness,  and  fire ! 
Wert  thou  but  shown  to  win  us  to  admire, 

And  veil  in  death  thy  splendour  ?  —  But  unknown 

Their  destination  who  least  time  have  shone, 
And  brightest  beamed.  — When  these  the  Eternal 

Sire, 
—  Righteous,  and  wise,  and  good  are  all  his  ways  — 

Eclipses  as  their  sun  begins  to  rise, 
Can  mortal  judge,  for  their  diminished  days, 

What  blest  equivalent  in  changeless  skies, 
What  sacred  glory  waits  them  ?  —  His  the  praise ; 

Gracious,  whate'er  he  gives,  whate'er  denies. 

24th  Oct.  1806. 


TRIBUTARY   VERSES.  231 


SONNET  OCCASIONED  BY  THE  SECOND  OF 
HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


BY   CAPEL  LOFFT. 


YES,  fled  already  is  thy  vital  fire, 

And  the  fair  promise  of  thy  early  bloom 

Lost,  in  youth's  morn  extinct ;  sunk  in  the  tomb  ; 

Mute  in  the  grave  sleeps  thy  enchanted  lyre ! 

And  is  it  vainly  that  our  souls  aspire  ? 
Falsely  does  the  presaging  heart  presume 
That  we  shall  live  beyond  life's  cares  and  gloom ; 

Grasps  it  eternity  with  high  desire, 

But  to  imagine  bliss,  feel  woe,  and  die  ; 

Leaving  survivors  to  worse  pangs  than  death? 
Not  such  the  sanction  of  the  Eternal  Mind. 

The  harmonious  order  of  the  starry  sky, 
And  awful  revelation's  angel  breath, 

Assure  these  hopes  their  full  effect  shall  find. 

25th  December,  1806. 


232  TRIBUTAKT   VERSES. 


WRITTEN  IN  THE  HOMER  OF 
MR.  H.  K.  WHITE. 

PRESENTED    TO   MB   BY   HIS  BROTHER,   J.  NEVILLE   WHITE. 
BY   CAPEL  LOFFT. 

BARD  of  brief  days,  but  ah,  of  deathless  fame ! 

While  on  these  awful  leaves  my  fond  eyes  rest, 

On  which  thine  late  have  dwelt,  thy  hand  late 

press'd, 

I  pause  ;  and  gaze  regretful  on  thy  name. 
By  neither  chance  nor  envy,  time  nor  flame, 

Be  it  from  this  its  mansion  dispossessed  ! 

But  thee,  Eternity,  clasps  to  her  breast, 
And  in  celestial  splendour  thrones  thy  claim. 

No  more  with  mortal  pencil  shalt  thou  trace 
An  imitative  radiance :  *  thy  pure  lyre 

Springs  from  our  changeful  atmosphere's  embrace, 
And  beams  and  breathes  in  empyreal  fire : 

The  Homeric  and  Miltonian  sacred  tone 

Responsive  hail  that  lyre  congenial  to  their  own. 

Bury,  llth  Jan.  1807. 

*  Alluding  to  his  pencilled  sketch  of  a  head  surrounded  with 
a  glory. 


TRIBUTARY   VERSES.  233 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  H.  K.  WHITE. 

BY  THE  KEY.   W.   B.   COLLYER,  A.  M. 

O  LOST  too  soon !  accept  the  tear 
A  stranger  to  thy  memory  pays  I 

Dear  to  the  muse,  to  science  dear, 
In  the  young  morning  of  thy  days ! 

All  the  wild  notes  that  pity  loved 
Awoke,  responsive  still  to  thee, 

While  o'er  the  lyre  thy  fingers  roved 
In  softest,  sweetest  harmony. 

The  chords  that  in  the  human  heart 
Compassion  touches  as  her  own, 

Bore  in  thy  symphonies  a  part — 
With  them  in  perfect  unison. 

Amidst  accumulated  woes 

That  premature  afflictions  bring, 

Submission's  sacred  hymn  arose, 

Warbled  from  every  mournful  string. 

When  o'er  thy  dawn  the  darkness  spread, 
And  deeper  every  moment  grew ; 

When  rudely  round  thy  youthful  head 
The  chilling  blasts  of  sickness  blew ; 


234  TRIBUTARY   VERSES. 

Religion  heard  no  'plainings  loud, 
The  sigh  in  secret  stole  from  thee  ; 

And  pity,  from  the  "  dropping  cloud," 
Shed  tears  of  holy  sympathy. 

Cold  is  that  heart  in  which  were  met 
More  virtues  than  could  ever  die ; 

The  morning  star  of  hope  is  set  — 
The  sun  adorns  another  sky. 

O  partial  grief!  to  mourn  the  day 

So  suddenly  o'erclouded  here, 
To  rise  with  unextinguished  ray  — 

To  shine  in  a  superior  sphere ! 

Oft  Genius  early  quits  this  sod, 

Impatient  of  a  robe  of  clay, 
Spreads  the  light  pinion,  spurns  the  clod, 

And  smiles,  and  soars,  and  steals  away ! 

But  more  than  genius  urged  thy  flight, 

And  marked  the  way,  dear  youth !  for  thee : 

Henry  sprang  up  to  worlds  of  light 
On  wings  of  immortality ! 

Blackheath  Hill,  24th  June,  1808. 


TRIBUTARY   VERSES.  235 


SONNET  TO  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE,  ON  HIS 
POEMS  LATELY  PUBLISHED. 

BT  ARTHUR  OWEN,   ESQ. 

HAEL  !  gifted  youth,  whose  passion-breathing  lay 
Portrays  a  mind  attuned  to  noblest  themes, 
A  mind,  which,  wrapt  in  Fancy's  high-wrought 
dreams, 

To  nature's  veriest  bounds  its  daring  way 

Can  wing :  what  charms  throughout  thy  pages  shine, 
To  win  with  fairy  thrill  the  melting  soul ! 
For  though  along  impassioned  grandeur  roll, 

Yet  in  full  power  simplicity  is  thine. 

Proceed,  sweet  bard !  and  the  heaven-granted  fire 
Of  pity,  glowing  in  thy  feeling  breast, 
May  nought  destroy,  may  nought  thy  soul  divest 

Of  joy  —  of  rapture  hi  the  living  lyre, 
Thou  tunest  so  magically :  but  may  fame 
Each  passing  year  add  honours  to  thy  name. 

Richmond,  Sept  1803. 


236  TRIBUTARY   VERSES. 


SONNET, 

ON    SEEING    ANOTHER  WRITTEN   TO   H.   K.   WHITE,    IN    SEP- 
TEMBER,   1803,   INSERTED    IN   HIS   "REMAINS." 

BY  ARTHUR  OWEN,  ESQ. 

AH  !  once  again  the  long  left  wires  among, 
Truants  the  Muse  to  weave  her  requiem  song; 
With  sterner  lore  now  busied,  erst  the  lay 
Cheer'd  my  dark  morn  of  manhood,  wont  to  stray 
O'er  fancy's  fields  in  quest  of  musky  flower ; 

To  me  nor  fragrant  less,  though  barred  from  view 
And  courtship  of  the  world :  hailed  waa  the  hour 

That  gave  me,  dripping  fresh  with  nature's  dew, 
Poor  Henry's  budding  beauties  —  to  a  clime 
Hapless  transplanted,  whose  exotic  ray 
Forced  their  young  vigour  into  transient  day, 
And  drain'd  the  stalk  that  reared  them !  and  shall 

time 

Trample  these  orphan  blossoms  ? — No !  they  breathe 
Still  lovelier  charms  —  for  Southey  culls  the  wreath ! 

Oxford,  Dec.  17, 1807. 


TRIBUTARY   TERSES.  237 


REFLECTIONS  ON  BEADING  THE  LIFE  OP 
THE  LATE  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 

BY    WILLIAM   HOLLOWAY, 
AUTHOR  OF  THB  "PEASANT'S  FATE." 

DARLING  of  science  and  the  muse, 
How  shall  a  son  of  song  refuse 

To  shed  a  tear  for  thee  ? 
To  us,  so  soon,  for  ever  lost, 
What  hopes,  what  prospects  have  been  crossed 

By  Heaven's  supreme  decree? 

How  could  a  parent,  love-beguiled, 
In  life's  fair  prime  resign  a  child 

So  duteous,  good,  and  kind  ? 
The  warblers  of  the  soothing  strain 
Must  string  the  elegiac  lyre  in  vain 

To  soothe  the  wounded  mind  1 

Yet,  Fancy,  hovering  round  the  tomb, 
Half  envies,  while  she  mourns  thy  doom, 

Dear  poet,  saint,  and  sage ! 
Who  into  one  short  span,  at  best, 
The  wisdom  of  an  age  compressed, 

A  patriarch's  lengthen'd  age  1 


238  TRIBUTARY   VERSES. 

To  him  a  genius  sanctified, 
And  purged  from  literary  pride, 

A  sacred  boon  was  given : 
Chaste  as  the  psalmist's  harp,  his  lyre 
Celestial  raptures  could  inspire, 

And  lift  the  soul  to  Heaven. 

'Twas  not  the  laurel  earth  bestows, 
'Twas  not  the  praise  from  man  that  flows, 

With  classic  toil  he  sought : 
He  sought  the  crown  that  martyrs  wear, 
When  rescued  from  a  world  of  care ; 

Their  spirit  too  he  caught. 

Here  come,  ye  thoughtless,  vain,  and  gay, 
Who  idly  range  in  Folly's  way, 

And  learn  the  worth  of  time : 
Learn  ye,  whose  days  have  run  to  waste, 
How  to  redeem  this  pearl  at  last, 

Atoning  for  your  crime. 

*      This  flower,  that  drooped  in  one  cold  clime 
Transplanted  from  the  soil  of  time 

To  immortality, 

In  full  perfection  there  shall  bloom ; 
And  those  who  now  lament  his  doom 

Must  bow  to  God's  decree. 

London,  27th  Feb.  1808 


TRIBUTARY   VERSES.  239 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HENKY  KIRKE  WHITE. 

BY  T.   PARK. 

Too,  too  prophetic  did  thy  wild  note  swell, 

Impassioned  minstrel !  when  its  pitying  wail 
Sigh'd  o'er  the  vernal  primrose  as  it  fell 

Untimely,  withered  by  the  northern  gale.* 
Thou  wert  that  flower  of  promise  and  of  prime ! 

Whose   opening  bloom,  'mid  many  an   adverse 

blast,  [clime, 

Charm'd   the  lone  wanderer    through   this  desert 

But  charm'd  him  with  a  rapture  soon  o'ercast, 
To  see  thee  languish  into  quick  decay. 

Yet  was  not  thy  departing  immature  ; 
For  ripe  in  virtue  thou  wert  reft  away, 

And  pure  in  spirit,  as  the  bless'd  are  pure ; 
Pure  as  the  dewdrop,  freed  from  earthly  leaven, 
That  sparkles,  is  exhaled,  and  blends  with  heaven ! 


LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MR.  HENRY 
KIRKE   WHITE. 

BY  THE  REV.  J.  PLUMPTRB. 

SUCH  talents  and  such  piety  combined, 
With  such  unfeign'd  humility  of  mind, 
Bespoke  him  fair  to  tread  the  way  to  fame, 
And  live  an  honour  to  the  Christian  name. 

•  See  Clifton  Grove. 


240  TRIBUTARY   VERSES. 

But  Heaven  was  pleased  to  stop  his  fleeting  hour, 
And  blight  the  fragrance  of  the  opening  flower. 
We  mourn  —  but  not  for  him,  removed  from  pain ; 
Our  loss,  we  trust,  is  his  eternal  gain : 
With  him  we'll  strive  to  win  the  Saviour's  love, 
And  hope  to  join  him  with  the  blest  above. 

October  24th,  1808. 


TO  MB.  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 

BY  H.   WELKER. 

HARK!  'tis  some  sprite  who  sweeps  a  funeral  knell. 
For  Dermody  no  more.  —  That  fitful  tone 

From  Eolus'  wild  harp  alone  can  swell, 
Or  Chatterton  assumes  the  lyre  unknown. 

No ;  list  again !  't  is  Bateman's  fatal  sigh 

Swells  with  the  breeze,  and  dies  upon  the  stream : 

'T  is  Margaret  mourns,  as  swift  she  rushes  by, 
Roused  by  the  demons  from  adulterous  dream. 

0 !  say,  sweet  youth !  what  genius  fires  thy  soul  ? 

The  same  which  tuned  the  frantic  nervous  strain 
To  the  wild  harp  of  Collins  ?  —  By  the  pole, 

Or  'mid  the  seraphim  and  heavenly  train, 
Taught  Milton  everlasting  secrets  to  unfold, 
To  sing  Hell's  flaming  gulf,  or  Heaven  high  arched 
with  gold  ? 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES.  241 


VERSES  OCCASIONED  BY  THE  DEATH  OF 
HENRY  KTRKE  WHITE. 

BY  JOSIAH   CONDER. 

WHAT  is  this  world  at  best, 
Though  deck'd  in  vernal  bloom, 
By  hope  and  youthful  fancy  dressed, 
What,  but  a  ceaseless  toil  for  rest, 
A  passage  to  the  tomb  ? 
If  flowrets  strew 
The  avenue, 
Though  fair,  alas !  how  fading,  and  how  few ! 

And  every  hour  comes  armed 
By  sorrow,  or  by  woe : 
Conceal'd  beneath  its  little  wings, 
A  scythe  the  soft-shod  pilferer  brings, 
To  lay  some  comfort  low : 
Some  tie  to  unbind, 
By  love  entwined, 
Some  silken  bond  that  holds  the  captive  mind. 

And  every  month  displays 

The  ravages  of  time  : 
Faded  the  flowers !  —  The  spring  is  past ! 
The  scattered  leaves,  the  wintry  blast, 

Warn  to  a  milder  clinie : 
16 


242  TRIBUTARY   VERSES. 

The  songsters  flee 
The  leafless  tree, 
And  bear  to  happier  realms  their  melody. 

Henry !  the  world  no  more 
Can  claim  thee  for  her  own ! 
In  purer  skies  thy  radiance  beams ! 
Thy  lyre  employed  on  nobler  themes 
Before  the  eternal  throne : 
Yet,  spirit  dear, 

Forgive  the  tear  [here. 

Which  those  must  shed  who 're  doomed  to  linger 

Although  a  stranger,  I 
In  friendship's  train  would  weep : 
Lost  to  the  world,  alas !  so  young, 
And  must  thy  lyre,  in  silence  hung, 
On  the  dark  cypress  sleep  ? 
The  poet,  all 
Their  friend  may  call ; 
And  Nature's  self  attends  his  funeral. 

Although  with  feeble  wing 
Thy  flight  I  would  pursue, 
With  quickened  zeal,  with  humbled  pride, 
Alike  our  object,  hopes,  and  guide, 
One  heaven  alike  in  view ; 
True,  it  was  thine 
To  tower,  to  shine  ; 
But  I  may  make  thy  milder  virtues  mine. 


TKIBUTAKT   VERSES.  243 

If  Jesus  own  my  name 
(Though  fame  pronounced  it  never), 
Sweet  spirit,  not  with  thee  alone, 
But  all  whose  absence  here  I  moan, 
Circling  with  harps  the  golden  throne, 
I  shall  unite  for  ever. 
At  death  then  why 

Tremble  or  sigh  ?  [to  die  ? 

Oh !  who  would  wish  to  live,  but  he  who  fears 

Dec.  6, 1807. 


ON  READING  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE'S 
POEM  ON  SOLITUDE. 


BUT  art  thou  thus  indeed  "  alone  ?  " 
Quite  unbefriended  —  all  unknown  ? 
And  hast  thou  then  his  name  forgot 
Who  form'd  thy  frame,  and  fixed  thy  lot  ? 

Is  not  his  voice  in  evening's  gale  ? 
Beams  not  with  him  the  "  star"  so  pale ? 
Is  there  a  leaf  can  fade  and  die 
Unnoticed  by  his  watchful  eye  ? 

Each  fluttering  hope  —  each  anxious  fear- 
Each  lonely  sigh  —  each  silent  tear  — 
To  thine  Almighty  Friend  are  known ; 
And  say'st  thou,  thou  art  "all  alone?" 


244  TRIBUTARY    VERSES. 


ODE  ON  THE  LATE  H.   KIEKE  WHITE. 


BY  JUVENIS. 


AND  is  the  minstrel's  voyage  o'er  ? 

And  is  the  star  of  genius  fled  ? 
And  will  his  magic  harp  no  more, 

Mute  in  the  mansions  of  the  dead, 
Its  strains  seraphic  pour  ? 

A  pilgrim  in  this  world  of  woe, 
Condemned,  alas !  awhile  to  stray, 

Where  bristly  thorns,  where  briers  grow, 
He  bade,  to  cheer  the  gloomy  way, 

Its  heavenly  music  flow. 

And  oft  he  bade,  by  fame  inspired, 
Its  wild  notes  seek  the  ethereal  plain, 

Till  angels,  by  its  music  fired, 

Have,  listening,  caught  the  ecstatic  strain, 

Have  wondered,  and  admired. 

But  now  secure  on  happier  shores, 
With  choirs  of  sainted  souls  he  sings ; 

His  harp  the  Omnipotent  adores, 
And  from  its  sweet,  its  silver  strings 

Celestial  music  pours. 


TRIBUTARY   VERSES.  245 

And  though  on  earth  no  more  he'll  weave 
The  lay  that's  fraught  with  magic  fire, 

Yet  oft  shall  Fancy  hear  at  eve 
His  now  exalted  heavenly  lyre 

In  sounds  ^iEolian  grieve. 

B.  Stoke. 


SONNET  IN  MEMOEY  OF  HENRY 
KIEKE  WHITE. 


"  Tis  now  the  dead  of  night,"  and  I  will  go 
To  where  the  brook  soft  murmuring  glides  along 
In  the  still  wood ;  yet  does  the  plaintive  song 
Of  Philomela  through  the  welkin  flow ; 
And  while  pale  Cynthia  carelessly  doth  throw 

Her  dewy  beams  the  verdant  boughs  among, 

Will  sit  beneath  some  spreading  oak  tree  strong, 
And  intermingle  with  the  streams  my  woe  ! 
Hushed  in  deep  silence  every  gentle  breeze ; 

No  mortal  breath  disturbs  the  awful  gloom ; 
Cold,  chilling  dewdrops  trickle  down  the  trees, 

And  every  flower  withholds  its  rich  perfume : 
'Tis  sorrow  leads  me  to  that  sacred  ground 
Where  Henry  moulders  in  a  sleep  profound ! 


246  TRIBUTARY   VERSES. 


LINES   ON  THE  DEATH   OF   HENKY 
KIEKE   WHITE. 

LATE  OF  ST.    JOHN'S  COLLEGE,   CAMBRIDGE. 

SORROWS  are  mine  —  then  let  me  joys  evade, 
And  seek  for  sympathies  in  this  lone  shade. 
The  glooms  of  death  fall  heavy  on  my  heart, 
And,  between  life  and  me,  a  truce  impart. 
Genius  has  vanished  in  its  opening  bloom, 
And  youth  and  beauty  wither  in  the  tomb  ! 

Thought,  ever  prompt  to  lend  the  inquiring  eye, 
Pursues  thy  spirit  through  futurity. 
Does  thy  aspiring  mind  new  powers  essay, 
Or  in  suspended  being  wait  the  day, 
When  earth  shall  fall  before  the  awful  train 
Of  Heaven  and  Virtue's  everlasting  reign  ? 

May  goodness,  which  thy  heart  did  once  enthrone, 
Emit  one  ray  to  meliorate  my  own ! 
And  for  thy  sake,  when  time  affliction  calm, 
Science  shall  please,  and  poesie  shall  charm. 

I  turn  my  steps  whence  issued  all  my  woes, 
Where  the  dull  courts  monastic  glooms  impose ; 
Thence  fled  a  spirit  whose  unbounded  scope 
Surpass'd  the  fond  creations  e'en  of  hope. 

Along  this  path  thy  living  step  has  fled, 
Along  this  path  they  bore  thee  to  the  dead. 


TRIBUTARY   VERSES.  247 

All  that  this  languid  eye  can  now  survey 
Witnessed  the  vigour  of  thy  fleeting  day : 
And  witnessed  all,  as  speaks  this  anguished  tear, 
The  solemn  progress  of  thy  early  bier. 

Sacred  the  walls  that  took  thy  parting  breath, 
Own'd  thee  in  life,  encompassed  thee  in  death  ! 

Oh !  I  can  feel  as  felt  the  sorrowing  friend 
Who  o'er  thy  corse  in  agony  did  bend ; 
Dead  as  thyself  to  all  the  world  inspires, 
Paid  the  last  rites  mortality  requires ; 
Closed  the  dun  eye  that  beamed  with  mind  before, 
Composed  the  icy  limbs  to  move  no  more ! . 

Some  power  the  picture  from  my  memory  tear 
Or  feeling  will  rush  onward  to  despair. 

Immortal  hopes !  come,  lend  your  blest  relief, 
And  raise  the  soul  bowed  down  with  mortal  grief; 
Teach  it  to  look  for  comfort  in  the  skies : 
Earth  cannot  give  what  Heaven's  high  will  de-     .«. 

Cambridge,  Nov.  1806. 


SONNET 

ADDRESSED   TO  H.    K.   WHITE,  ON  HIS  POEMS 
LATELY  PUBLISHED. 

BY   G.   L.    C. 

HENRY  !  I  greet  thine  entrance  into  life ! 
Sure  presage  that  the  myrmidons  of  fate, 
The  fool's  unmeaning  laugh,  the  critic's  hate, 
Will  dire  assail  thee ;  and  the  envious  strife 


248  TRIBUTARY   VERSES. 

Of  bookish  schoolmen,  beings  over  rife, 

Whose  pia-mater  studious  is  filled 

With  unconnected  matter,  half  distilled 

From  lettered  page,  shall  bare  for  thee  the  knife, 

Beneath  whose  edge  the  poet  ofttimes  sinks : 

But  fear  not !  for  thy  modest  work  contains 

The  germ  of  worth ;  thy  wild  poetic  strains, 

How  sweet  to  him,  untutored  bard,  who  thinks 

Thy  verse  "  has  power  to  please,  as  soft  it  flows 

Through  the.  smooth  murmurs  of  the  frequent  close." 

1803. 


TO   THE   MEMORY   OF   HENRY   KIRKE   WHITE. 

BY  A  LADY. 

IF  worth,  if  genius,  to  the  world  are  dear, 

To  Henry's  shade  devote  no  common   tear ; 

His  worth  on  no  precarious  tenure  hung, 

From  genuine  piety  his  virtues  sprung ; 

If  pure  benevolence,  if  steady  sense, 

Can  to  the  feeling  heart  delight  dispense : 

If  all  the  highest  efforts  of  the  mind, 

Exalted,  noble,  elegant,  refined, 

Call  for  fond  sympathy's  heart-felt  regret, 

Ye  sons  of  genius,  pay  the  mournful  debt : 

His  friends  can  truly  speak  how  large-  his  claim, 

And  "  Life  was  only  wanting  to  his  fame." 


TRIBUTARY   VERSES.  249 

Art  thou,  indeed,  dear  youth,  for  ever  fled  ? 

So  quickly  numbered  with  the  silent  dead  ? 

Too  sure  I  read  it  in  the  downcast  eye, 

Hear  it  in  mourning  friendship's  stifled  sigh. 

Ah !  could  esteem  or  admiration  save 

So  dear  an  object  from  the  untimely  grave, 

This  transcript  faint  had  not  essayed  to  tell 

The  loss  of  one  beloved,  revered  so  well ; 

Vainly  I  try,  even  eloquence  were  weak, 

The  silent  sorrow  that  I  feel  to  speak. 

No  more  my  hours  of  pain  thy  voice  will  cheer, 

And  bind  my  spirit  to  this  lower  sphere ; 

Bend  o'er  my  suffering  frame  with  gentle  sigh, 

And  bid  new  fire  relume  my  languid  eye : 

No  more  the  pencil's  mimic  art  command, 

And  with  kind  pity  guide  my  trembling  hand ; 

Nor  dwell  upon  the  page  in  fond  regard, 

To  trace  the  meaning  of  the  Tuscan  bard. 

Vain  all  the  pleasures  thou  canst  not  inspire, 

And  "  in  my  breast  the  imperfect  joys  expire." 

I  fondly  hoped  thy  hand  might  grace  my  shrine, 

And  little  dreamed  I  should  have  wept  o'er  thine : 

In  fancy's  eye  methought  I  saw  thy  lyre 

"With  virtue's  energies  each  bosom  fire ; 

I  saw  admiring  nations  press  around, 

Eager  to  catch  the  animating  sound : 

And  when,  at  length,  sunk  in  the  shades  of  night, 

To  brighter  worlds  thy  spirit  wing*d  its  flight, 

Thy  country  hailed  thy  venerated  shade, 

And  each  graced  honour  to  thy  memory  paid. 


250  TRIBUTARY   VERSES. 

Such  was  the  fate  hope  pictured  to  my  view  — • 

But  who,  alas !  e'er  found  hope's  visions  true  ? 

And,  ah !  a  dark  presage,  when  last  we  met, 

Sadden'd  the  social  hour  with  deep  regret ; 

When  thou  thy  portrait  from  the  minstrel  drew, 

The  living  Edwin  starting  on  my  view  — 

Silent,  I  asked  of  Heaven  a  lengthened  date ; 

His  genius  thine,  but  not  like  thine  his  fate. 

Shuddering  I  gazed,  and  saw  too  sure  revealed. 

The  fatal  truth,  by  hope  till  then  concealed. 

Too  strong  the  portion  of  celestial  flame 

For  its  weak  tenement  the  fragile  frame  ; 

Too  soon  for  us  it  sought  its  native  sky, 

And  soar'd  impervious  to  the  mortal  eye, 

Like  some  clear  planet,  shadowed  from  our  sight, 

Leaving  behind  long  tracks  of  lucid  light : 

So  shall  thy  bright  example  fire  each  youth 

With  love  of  virtue,  piety,  and  truth. 

Long  o'er  thy  loss  shall  grateful  Granta  mourn, 

And  bid  her  sons  revere  thy  favoured  urn. 

When  thy   loved  flower  "spring's  victory  makes 

known," 

The  primrose  pale  shall  bloom  for  thee  alone : 
Around  thy  urn  the  rosemary  well  spread, 
Whose  "  tender  fragrance,"  —  emblem  of  the  dead  — 
Shall   "teach  the  maid,   whose   bloom    no   longer 

lives," 

That  "  virtue  every  perished  grace  survives." 
Farewell !  sweet  Moralist ;  heart-sickening  grief 
Tells  me  in  duty's  path  to  seek  relief, 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES.  251 

"With  surer  aim  on  faith's  strong  pinions  rise, 
And  seek  hope's  vanished  anchor  in  the  skies. 
Yet  still  on  thee  shall  fond  remembrance  dwell, 
And  to  the  world  thy  worth  delight  to  tell ; 
Though  well  I  feel  unworthy  thee  the  lays 
That  to  thy  memory  weeping  friendship  pays. 


STANZAS, 

8OTPOSED  TO  HAVE  BEEN  WRITTEN  AT  THE  GRAVE 
OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 

BY  A  LADY. 

YE  gentlest  gales !  oh,  hither  waft, 

On  airy  undulating  sweeps, 
Your  frequent  sighs  so  passing  soft, 

Where  he,  the  youthful  Poet,  sleeps ! 
He  breathed  the  purest  tenderest  sigh, 
The  sigh  of  sensibility. 

And  thou  shalt  lie,  his  favourite  flower, 
Pale  primrose,  on  his  grave  reclined ; 

Sweet  emblem  of  his  fleeting  hour, 
And  of  his  pure,  his  spotless  mind ! 

Like  thee  he  sprung  in  lowly  vale ; 

And  felt,  like  thee,  the  trying  gale. 


252  TRIBUTARY   VERSES. 

Nor  hence  thy  pensive  eye  seclude, 
O  thou,  the  fragrant  rosemary, 

Where  he,. "in  marble  solitude, 
So  peaceful  and  so  deep  "  doth  lie ! 

His  harp  prophetic  sung  to  thee 

In  notes  of  sweetest  minstrelsy. 

Ye  falling  dews,  Oh !  ever  leave 

Your  crystal  drops  these  flowers  to  steep : 

At  earliest  morn,  at  latest  eve, 
Oh  let  them  for  their  poet  weep ! 

For  tears  bedewed  his  gentle  eye, 

The  tears  of  heavenly  sympathy. 

Thou  western  Sun,  effuse  thy  beams ; 

For  he  was  wont  to  pace  the  glade, 
To  watch  in  pale  uncertain  gleams, 

The  crimson-zoned  horizon  fade  — 
Thy  last,  thy  setting  radiance  pour, 
"Where  he  is  set  to  rise  no  more. 


THE    END. 


NOTES. 

Page,  56.  "  This  is  the  poem  which  Kirke  White  had  most 
at  heart,  and  upon  which  he  seems  to  have  bestowed  most 
pains.  There  is  great  power  in  its  execution."  —  SOUTHEY. 

Page  70.  The  author  thus  speaks  of  this  poem  in  a  letter 
to  Southey  dated  July  9th,  1804 :  —  "I  have  another  poem  of 
considerable  magnitude  in  design,  but  of  which  only  a  part  is 
written,  which  I  am  fairly  at  a  loss  whether  to  commit  it  to 
the  flames,  or  at  some  future  opportunity  to  finish  ;  the  sub- 
ject is  the  death  of  Christ." 

Page  94.  "  I  am  not  able  to  do  justice  to  your  unfortunate 
friend  Gill;  the  verses  on  the  other  side  are  the  work  of 
thirty  minutes  this  morning,  and  I  send  them  to  you  with  all 
their  imperfections  on  their  head."  —  WHITE'S  LETTER  TO 
MR.  CHARLESWORTH,  1802. 

Page  95.  "  Do  you  think  calling  the  Naiads  of  the  foun- 
tains '  Nymphs  of  Paeon '  is  an  allowable  liberty  ?  The  allu- 
sion is  to  their  healthy  and  bracing  qualities."  —  "  The  last 
line  of  the  seventh  stanza  contains  an  apparent  pleonasm,  to 
say  no  worse  of  it,  and  yet  it  was  not  written  as  such.  The 
idea  was  from  the  shriek  of  death  (personified),  and  the 
scream  of  the  dying  man." —  LETTER  TO  CHARLESWORTH. 

Page  135.  These  verses  and  those  on  the  following  page 
were  composed  extempore  in  the  presence  of  a  friend,  who 
doubted  White's  ability  to  write  poetry ;  he  thus  alludes  to  the 
circumstance  in  a  letter  to  his  brother  Neville:  — ''  My  good 
friend  Ben  Maddock  found  means  to  get  me  to  write  verses 
extempore,  to  prove  whether  I  could  tag  rhymes  or  not,  which, 
it  seems,  he  doubted." 

Page  141.  This  Ode  was  printed  as  an  introductory  poem 
to  the  volume  containing  "  Clifton  Grove,"  &c. 


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